


The Wrong Wagon

by DancingGrimm



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Adorable Molly, Angst and Humor, Awkwardness, BAMF John, Casual Sex, F/M, First Time, Humor, John shoots some guy who deserves it, M/M, Obliviousness, Public Sex, Requited Love, Romance, Sex, Unrequited Love, Virgin Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-09
Updated: 2013-04-03
Packaged: 2017-11-24 07:43:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 35,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/632059
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DancingGrimm/pseuds/DancingGrimm
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Molly sees John in a new light and realises that she may have hitched her horse to the wrong wagon...or something like that.<br/>John pines for Sherlock and worries what he will think if he ever finds out.<br/>And Sherlock doesn't know what Molly's up to...but he knows he doesn't like it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The slate was frigid and hard against her knees, bloody skirt. Oh god, if she survived this she was going to wear trousers every day for the rest of her life. She’d get married in trousers!

Prologue

 

Molly Hooper was regretting having put on a skirt that morning. Stupid that, what with everything going on, that was the thought that kept popping into her head, but there it was. Because the man who had hold of her, the one with the gun, was grabbing her so tightly that the side of her skirt was rucking up against his leg as he walked and it just felt so _undignified_.

 

She supposed she was in shock, that was why she kept thinking about her bloody clothes. The facts of the matter were just too horrible to focus on.

 

She’d been just about to finish up for the day and go home, at a decent hour for once, when shouts and crashes reached her ears from another part of the hospital and she had run towards the sounds, all too aware that the shift change was going on and that she may well have been the only person with first aid training left on that floor. But it wasn’t an accident. A group of armed men had got into the hospital and tried to steal the stocks of morphine and probably other drugs too, and somehow one of the security guards was shot and likely dead, and then in a whirl of activity which Molly’s brain had hardly been able to keep up with, the police had turned up and the group of men got separated, and she was seized by one as a hostage.

 

The one who had shot the security guard.

 

Her feet skidded on the floor as he dragged her around a sharp corner and he swore at her. They were in one of the older parts of the hospital now, all winding corridors and echoing operating theatres. The man had his right arm around her waist and held his gun in his left hand, alternating between pointing it down the passageways ahead of them and pointing it at her. He was panting and agitated, desperate to escape from the police. He wasn’t doing a bad job of it, some calm bit of Molly’s brain noted. She hadn’t seen or heard a sign of anyone else for some minutes now. If he could find a way out of the building, he might be able to get away, he might let her go!

 

He might not.

 

He cursed violently as they rounded another corner and came to a dead end. The door on one side of the corridor let into an old morgue, Molly knew, but the door was locked, as her captor discovered when he smashed his shoulder into it. A bullet took care of the lock, to Molly’s dismay, and he dragged her through the door into the large, chilly room beyond.

 

The old morgue looked much as it had when it was built in the Victorian era; the walls were stone blocks and the floor slate, clean and cold. Several metal tables were lined up against two walls and a modern refrigeration unit, the kind with drawers, stood looking out-of-place at the back of the room. The man looked around, gritted out something under his breath, and abruptly squatted down on the floor, half behind some of the tables, pulling Molly down with him. Her knees hit the floor hard and she let out a cry, but got the gun waved in her face again.

 

“Keep quiet,” the man snarled in her ear. “We’re staying down here ‘til it cools off, and if there’s any trouble you’re first in the line of fire. Got it?”

 

Molly bit her tongue against the sob that wanted to escape, and nodded, his words echoing around the room and rebounding back to her ears. She was forced down onto the floor, face against the slate, and held there by a heavy hand on the back of her neck.

 

The slate was frigid and hard against her knees, bloody skirt. Oh god, if she survived this she was going to wear trousers every day for the rest of her life. She’d get _married_ in trousers!

 

She had no way to tell how quickly time was passing; her watch was still on her wrist, inches away from the side of her head, but she was too scared to turn her head and look at it. Thus she had no idea how long she’d been there by the time soft footsteps sounded in the corridor and the door handle turned with a squeak.

 

The man beside her immediately tensed, his hand tightening on the back of her neck to the point of pain. “Stop! Stay right fucking there!” he growled, and whoever had just come in stopped moving.

 

“Who the fuck are you?”

 

“Don’t worry,” said a soft even voice. “I’m not with the police. I’m just concerned about that girl you’ve got there. How would you feel about an exchange?”

 

Oh god, Molly recognised that voice.

 

“Exchange?”

 

“Yep. Me for her. Leave her here, safe, and I’ll go with you and help you get out of the building. I was a student here, I know all the ways to sneak out.”

 

There was a pause as the man thought it over, just for half a minute or less. Then, with a snarl, he surged to his feet, dragging Molly up with him by the back of her collar. His hand grasped her throat as she got her feet under her, pulling her head back against his shoulder, and she could see the man at the door.

 

John Watson. Cuddly jumper, placid expression, looking like he wouldn’t hurt a fly. And yes, he’d been in the army, but as a doctor, not a soldier! And the best thing he could come up with was an offer to swap hostages? Oh God, she hoped that Sherlock was somewhere near by!

 

“I don’t believe you,” her captor spat. “You’re a fucking copper! I’m not letting you near me. You come another step closer, this bitch gets a bullet in her head.”

 

For the first time Molly felt the barrel of the gun against her bare flesh, on the thin skin of her temple, and her eyes filled with tears.

 

“Molly,” John’s voice said gently, so soft that it didn’t even echo in the cavernous room. “Molly, look at me.”

 

“Shut up!” Molly blinked her eyes dry in time to see her captor swing the gun towards John, who held his hands out to his sides in a placating gesture.

 

“Don’t worry Molly, you’ll be okay,” he said. The gun came back to Molly’s head again, but she kept her eyes on John this time.

 

“I’ll get you out of this safe Molly. But you must do something for me.”

 

“Shut the _fuck up!_ ” The gun was back on John again.

 

“Close your eyes again now, and don’t move.”

 

“Be quiet! I’ll fucking kill ‘er, I’m not joking!”

 

“Not a single twitch, Molly.”

 

Molly shut her eyes.

 

There was a second of silence, maybe more or maybe less, then an intake of breath in the ribcage behind her, a movement from near the door, and a sudden autoclave _rush_ of sound and heat and motion past her left cheek. The aftermath of an incredible noise rattled around the huge room, ringing in her ears, and her eyes were still closed as the warmth of the body behind her fell away, the hand around her neck pulling her. Pulling her backwards and she almost fell with it...

 

Then John’s hands were gripping her upper arms and keeping her on her feet.

 

She opened her eyes and looked up at him, his concerned face, saw his eyes glance at the floor behind her and she turned her head to see-

 

“Don’t look, Molly. You don’t need to see it.”

 

He carefully touched the skin of her throat where she could already feel a bruise forming. His gun was stuck in his belt, just in front of his left hip.

 

“Can you breathe alright?”

 

“Y-yes.”

 

He nodded. “Okay, let’s get out of here.”

 

He put his hand steadyingly on her shoulder as they walked towards the door, and it occurred to her; she could look if she wanted. She was a pathologist, she dealt with corpses all the time, every day nearly.

 

She turned and saw the man lying on the floor, saw his face, entry wound under his left eye. A pool of blood was slowly spreading out from around his head like a halo, and she felt acid rise in her throat. John hurried her out and shut the door behind them.

 

“It’s different when you’ve seen them killed,” he told her, and he was right.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes it's a new multi-chapter fic! Woooo! I hope you enjoy.  
> Just to warn you, the above may seem super angsty...with good reason because John just shot the fuck out of a guy. The next couple of chapters may be a bit downbeat as well, while I'm setting the scene. I hope, however, that this will eventually become quite a laugh.  
> I say hope because I really don't think I'm that funny. I put little things into The Adventure of the Consulting Woman that I thought may raise a smile in a few people of a similar mind set to me, and then I got masses of comments saying things like “Oh my god! I just laughed so hard I frightened the dog and spat my drink everywhere and my spleen popped out!” and I never really expected that.  
> So fingers crossed I'll be able to reconnect with whatever strange, comical muse did that.  
> Later.


	2. Molly Has a Revelation (among other things)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She wasn't sure exactly who instigated what after that point, and would later feel cringing embarrassment at the notion that it may well have been mostly her, but John was with her all the way.

Once more, it felt to Molly like a series of events were happening too quickly for her to register. John led her through the corridors, talking soothingly to her, though she heard not a word of it. Then, all of a sudden, they were out in the cool evening air and there were paramedics swarming around them. She didn’t even realise that John had left her side until she was sitting in the back of a parked ambulance, a blanket wrapped around her shoulders, watching police officers rush back and forth outside the open doors.

 

That nice silver-haired inspector that Sherlock was friends with had taken her statement and reassured her that she was safe. They were going to take her to hospital, a different hospital that was, but there were plenty of people in a worse state than her – there had been some more shooting somewhere in the hospital – so she was left to sit and gather her thoughts until triage had been done and the first wave of ambulances were on their way.

 

She felt distinctly uncomfortable, but she couldn't quite define how. It wasn't really regret or sorrow, though she felt a bit of both – two people, at least, were dead after all – it wasn't really anger or fear either. She supposed it was shock, but she hadn't experienced that before, so it was hard to say for certain. There was some sort of harsh, fizzing energy in her limbs that she didn't know what to do with.

 

“How are you feeling?” said a voice from nearby, and she looked up with a jerk to see that John was back.

 

“Shaky, but I’m okay. I-I’ll be okay.” God, she sounded like such an idiot! “I...are you in trouble? I mean, for...um-”

 

“For shooting him? I think it'll come out okay in the wash. Better him than you, eh?”

 

She felt unaccountably flattered by that, felt a bit of a blush creeping up her cheeks and tucked her chin into the folds of the blanket.

 

He looked her up and down. “Feeling a bit restless?”

 

“A bit.”

 

He turned and called out to the inspector, who was talking to two uniformed officers a few yards away from the ambulance. “Greg, is it okay if Molly and I stroll around a bit? It might help her to walk off the nerves. I’ll stay with her.”

 

The inspector agreed and John glanced around, then gestured Molly towards a path that led between two of the buildings. She nodded and climbed down from the ambulance, and they walked away at a leisurely pace. She still had the blanket wrapped around her, as well as her labcoat and cardigan and blouse, so the autumn chill didn’t bother her too badly. John wore a green jacket, unbuttoned over his jumper and shirt. She’d never seen that jacket before, it suited him.

 

It occurred to her that that might be an odd thing to think about a man who had just killed somebody to save her life. Shouldn't she be thinking he was mysterious and intimidating, something like that? She glanced across at John, who was trying to orient himself as they walked, sticking out his chin and pursing his lips as he concentrated. He wasn't very intimidating at all. Or particularly mysterious.

 

The path led them down a small passageway between two of the hospital complex’s oldest buildings, lit brightly by Victorian-style streetlamps. It was quiet and still there, and Molly began to feel rather better. It still felt like there were ants crawling along her nerves, but they were settling down a bit. John chatted quietly away next to her; after his initial reassurances that all the thieves had been caught, he started just telling her little anecdotes about his time here as a student, which was oddly comforting. It seemed he didn’t need much input from her, so the conversation just slid pleasantly by her and let her own thoughts smooth out.

 

A fork in the path appeared at the corner with another building, and she wasn’t sure which of them made the decision to turn right, but they did, and found themselves in a courtyard; a little square of lawn towered over on all sides by the old buildings but for a tiny gap where the path passed through. The windows above them were dark and there were more old-fashioned lampposts, and a little bench. Molly wasn’t quite sure if she wanted to sit down, but it felt silly to just stand there, so she perched on the arm rest and watched as John wandered placidly around the patch of grass, peering up at the dark windows.

 

He turned to her and smiled.

 

“How are you feeling, Molly?” he asked again, subtle insistence in his words this time.

 

She thought carefully before she answered. “Twitchy,” she told him. “Or...I'm not sure, I suppose I'm in shock, but I don't feel nauseous or anything, just...unsettled. It's odd.” She looked down and saw that her hands, resting in her lap, were trembling, and she thought of John's hand, those little exercises she'd seen him do with his fingers, the injury.

 

“God, you must think I'm such a _coward_!” she blurted. “You must have been through so much worse before, and you...you never-”

 

He stepped up in front of her and put his own warm hands around hers. “Now don't think like that,” he told her calmly. “There's no bravery competition. Everyone deals with fear differently, that's all. I just don't show it as much. There's no shame in being scared, not after something like that's happened.”

 

She nodded weakly and looked down at their joined hands. He was so kind and understanding, so cool headed. His hands were so warm and steady in her grip, and they felt...

 

They felt really nice, actually. She slid her own hands in his so that she could touch more of his skin, so she could settle her hands on his wrists while his hands rested on her forearms, and she could feel his pulse. Novel, almost, how that felt. Too much time spent amongst corpses.

 

He seemed to pick up on her train of thought and moved back a bit, drawing her to her feet. “C'mere,” he murmured gruffly, and she stepped up to him, put her arms around him, felt his arms wrap around her.

 

That helped a hell of a lot. He felt so cosy and sturdy and really truly _warm_ , even through all the layers of his clothes. He wasn't really a natural hugger and she could tell he felt awkward, but he was trying his best, and all of a sudden she felt a huge rush of affection for him.

 

Before she even realised that she was going to do it, she turned her head and kissed him.

 

She just put her lips against his at first, surprising a little murmur out of him. He didn't pull away though, just let her, so she kissed him properly. After a few seconds, he kissed back, and it turned out that he was, _really_ was, a natural kisser. His lips were smooth and firm, his arms tight around her, and all of a sudden, Molly knew exactly what her jitters were telling her she needed.

 

She wasn't sure exactly who instigated what after that point, and would later feel cringing embarrassment at the notion that it may well have been mostly her, but John was with her all the way. Their kisses became heated and sloppy, and without any awareness of having moved, she found her shoulders pressing into a wall, the blanket still draped around her keeping the cold of the bricks at bay. One of her ankles was hooked around the back of John's knee, and he skimmed his hand up her thigh, scooping her skirt up, and _god_ she was glad she'd worn a skirt that day! And she should have felt shy then, or embarrassed even, but she couldn't, not with his hot fingers exploring her skin so intimately, his compact, strong body pressed against hers.

 

God, it had been _much_ too long.

 

It all moved pretty quickly then; she grabbed at the fly of his jeans with a shaking hand until he tore his own hand away from her waist and undid it for her. Both his hands up her skirt, then, tugging her knickers down just far enough, not so far that they'd stop her from spreading her legs. Then she hitched her leg higher up around his waist, held on tightly to his shoulders and kissed him as he pushed inside her.

 

He was gentle, at first, holding her hips and trying to be slow, until she tore her mouth away from his to pant desperately for air, and that must have been some kind of turn on for John, because he murmured curses under his breath and pressed her harder into the wall. He was so hot and solid and thick inside her, moving with such sure ease, and she had to put her hand over her mouth to stop herself from screaming the place down. Already she was close, deep shudders rumbling through her, and she pressed herself more tightly against him, let out a shriek when he grabbed up her other leg and pulled that one around his waist too.

 

This, _exactly_ this, had been the stuff of fantasies for a significant part of her adult life. She'd never thought it would happen, but here she was; picked up off the ground and ravished against a wall.

 

He felt so deep inside her now, still moving so smoothly, so well, and she was a breath away from coming, a thrust away, and instant away, and then-

 

Her vision shattered and she wailed into her damp palm as orgasm hit her, John's cock still pumping inside her, drawing it out into long, trailing strands of pleasure.

 

He groaned and began to lose his rhythm, and just as she was coming down from her high, he sobbed out a breath, and she squeezed her arms and legs around him as he came.

 

It took a minute or two for them both to calm down enough that they were sure they could move without toppling over. When the time came though, John gently helped Molly to get her feet situated on solid ground, held onto her shoulders while she found her balance.

 

“Okay?” he asked, breathlessly. Molly nodded, then had to put her hand against the wall as her head reeled.

 

“Sorry,” John murmured. “I...that was too...sorry.”

 

Molly shook her head and, after a couple of false starts, managed to speak. “Please don't apologise, that was just...” she trailed off and felt herself grinning, even though a hot blush was starting to creep up her face again.

 

John raised his eyebrows. “You're sure you're okay? I wasn't too rough?”

 

Molly made the effort to push away from the wall and stand on her own two feet, before taking stock. She was sore, but in a good way. “I'm fine,” she told him. “In fact, I feel brilliant!” A little giggle escaped her at that, and John gave her an abashed smile.

 

“That'll be a mixture of endorphins from sex and the come-down from the shock and adrenaline,” he told her. And possibly also the fact that she hadn’t had sex in nearly four years, she thought, but she didn’t _say_ that of course.

 

John took off his jacket, then his jumper and shirt, before pulling off the cotton t-shirt he had on underneath and handing it to her. She stared dumbly at it for some moments, while he got dressed again, before realising what he'd intended it for. He kept his back turned to give her a bit of privacy while she...well, mopped up a bit. She pulled her knickers back up and smoothed her skirt down, and by the time she was done John had tidied himself up and looked once again like butter wouldn't melt in his mouth.

 

He came over to gather up the blanket and resettle it around her shoulders before drawing a deep breath and giving her an awkward look. “I'm sorry Molly, but are you on birth control?”

 

That jolted her back to sobriety a bit. “I - yes. The pill.”

 

He let out a little sigh of relief. “Good, that's...I'm clean, so...I have regular check ups, I mean. So you've nothing to worry about.”

 

“Yes. Me too, clean I mean.”

 

He nodded again, fussed a bit with the edge of the blanket where it kept sliding off her shoulder. “This...” she felt awkward, not quite sure what she wanted to ask. “Is this, I mean...”

 

“This can be just a one off, Molly. That's fine with me. I realise that you probably aren't much of a one for casual sex.”

 

She nodded. “Thanks,” she said quietly. “Um...”

 

“I won't mention it to Sherlock, if that's what you're about to ask,” John said with a small grin. “Things will just go on as normal. It was...let's call it a pleasant aberration. How's that?”

 

Molly smiled, feeling a little touch of tension she hadn't realise was in her dissipate. “That's...yes, that sounds perfect. Thanks, John.”

 

“Righto,” John replied cheerily. He took the t-shirt from her and pitched it into a bin they passed on their way back to the front building.

 

::

 

The havoc had died down a bit now; as they approached the traffic pull-in where the ambulance had been, Molly could see that most people had gone. The police must have finished questioning the staff, and the criminal transport vans and most of the ambulances had left, leaving only a couple of police cars and the ambulance that Molly had been sitting in earlier. There were still a few police officers milling about, and Molly spotted Sherlock and John's inspector in a small crowd of people by the doors, moments before she heard a familiar voice.

 

“You will tell me where the hell he is!” Sherlock was demanding, and the inspector moved out of the way enough that Molly could see Sherlock's face. “You let him do your blasted job for you and now you don't even know where – _John_!”

 

John had waved his arm to get Sherlock's attention, and now Sherlock was shoving police officers out of his way and striding over to them. John stood calmly at Molly's side, watching him approach with a look of rueful affection in his eyes.

 

Molly suddenly felt a jolt of anxiety; they'd agreed not to say anything to Sherlock, but that didn't mean he wouldn't work it out. Oh god, he was going to take one look at them and know that they'd had sex and then she'd never hear the end of it!

 

Sherlock arrived and elbowed his way past Molly to John's side, barely even noticing her.

 

“John, they said you shot somebody!” His eyes roved up and down John's body, then he reached up both hands to pat over John's chest and forearms and, just as John was opening his mouth to reply, Sherlock interrupted. “It was in one of the morgues. You killed him with one shot, then walked around the grounds to calm down from the adrenaline. You aren't hurt.”

 

There was a tinge of relief in his voice at that last statement, but aside from that, his deductions had been rattled off with his usual brisk callousness. John sighed and nodded, before gesturing to Molly.

 

“The same man who killed one of the security guards had grabbed Molly as a hostage. She was very-”

 

“Don't need those details at this point,” Sherlock cut in with a dismissive waft of his hand in Molly's direction.

 

“Sherlock!” John snapped, and it seemed to Molly like everyone in earshot suddenly froze. John glared fiercely at Sherlock, then sighed and turned to Molly, expression softening a little. “You'd best let them take you to get checked out, Molly,” he told her calmly. “They'll set you up with counselling and things at the hospital, if you want.”

 

He gestured at something behind her, and she looked over her shoulder to see one of the paramedics standing a few feet away, offering her a tentative smile. She nodded at him, then turned back to John.

 

“Thanks for everything,” she told him, and turned away quickly before she started blushing again. God, she couldn't _believe_ she'd said it like that!

 

As she walked towards the ambulance, she could hear Sherlock talking in rapid, low tones, wowing John with deductions, probably. He _was_ amazing, she supposed. Maybe he'd earned the right to be a bit nasty every now and then, but that didn't mean-

 

“Sherlock,” she heard John interrupt. “I'm cross with you, you realise. That was really rude just now.”

 

“Rude to whom?” Sherlock responded, confused. Molly glanced back over her shoulder as she climbed up into the back of the ambulance, and she saw John's thunderous expression aimed squarely at Sherlock.

 

In that moment, she had a revelation.

 

The paramedic closed the ambulance doors, and even through that barrier Molly could hear Sherlock getting a damn good telling off. She sat down heavily on one of the gurneys, and the paramedic peered worriedly at her face.

 

“You alright, Miss?” he asked.

 

Yes. Um...it just occurred to me...” She snapped back to awareness and looked up at the paramedic's curious face.

 

“What's that?” he asked.

 

“I think I may have hitched my horse to the wrong wagon,” she said thoughtfully.

 

The paramedic frowned. “Wagon to the wrong horse, d'you mean?”

 

“Whichever,” Molly replied. “I only just noticed...”

 

The paramedic shrugged and went about getting the ambulance ready to go, and by the time they set off, Molly had her thoughts back in some kind of order.

 

She'd had the wrong man all along.

And John had said that their little encounter _could_ be a one off, but he'd never said it _had_ to be.

 

Nobody had said that she couldn't ask him out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ooh, the plot gets going properly here. I love Molly and I wanted to write something with her in it. And yes this will ultimately be Johnlock, but don't worry, I'm not going to be too mean to her. I love her as a character because she's so tough. She's shy and awkward and is very aware of it, but damn it, she tries anyway. Bless her for a little trooper.  
> And look! The story behind that weird title! I know the phrase is the wrong way around, that's on purpose. Because they're the wrong way round...or something. It seemed clever when it was in my brain. Oh well, I like it :)


	3. Sherlock is Irritable (to no-one's surprise)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What could possibly have put him in such a foul mood? After shooting the cabbie John had practically been high, cheerfully digging into Chinese food and regaling Sherlock with army stories. Now this.
> 
> Wait...could it be something to do with Molly?

Sherlock was annoyed with John and, just to make things nice and neat, it seemed that John was annoyed with Sherlock too. After Molly wandered off with the paramedic, John had spent some minutes giving Sherlock grief about rudeness or something, the same sort of things he usually got all heated up about, though this time he was rather angrier than usual. His face flushed red and little flecks of saliva burst from his lips as he spoke, very loudly, right in Sherlock's face.

 

To say that Sherlock did not appreciate this was an understatement.

 

John had then gone on to childishly give him the silent treatment, lurking five or six feet away from him at all times while Sherlock spoke to the police, but never looking at him directly, just glaring off into the middle distance.

 

Sherlock couldn't understand him sometimes, he really couldn't. Just a few days ago they had had a conversation about the treatment of victims of crime by the police, and John had agreed (to a point) with Sherlock's conviction that, while a certain amount of supportiveness was helpful, too much would potentially cause a long term victim mentality to develop and make it harder for the victim to bounce back from the situation. John had even added his own ideas to the pot. They'd talked about co-writing an article on the subject, which Sherlock had very much liked the idea of.

 

Now, when he had behaved towards Molly exactly as he usually did, John had flown into a temper. He couldn't make sense of it, which tended to suggest that there wasn't any sense to be made. John had walked around with Molly after saving her from her ordeal, which may have sufficed as some sort of bonding ritual, but he had never been particularly close to Molly, and rarely sprang quite so eagerly to the defence of those he wasn't very attached to.

 

Sherlock supposed that John might have been on edge due to having lost his sense of control over his situation, after he got involved in foiling the crime. One would think, however, that the act of shooting one of the criminals in the head would be enough to re-establish that sense of control.

 

It was most odd, completely unfathomable.

 

Unless...

 

Unless, thought Sherlock as he waved distractedly to Lestrade and climbed into the back of a taxi that had been hailed for somebody else, he'd missed something.

 

No, impossible.

 

Wasn't it?

 

Was it?

 

After a moment of token resistance, John huffed loudly and climbed into the taxi with him, remaining silent while Sherlock gave their address. As the cab pulled away, he directed his gaze out of the window, staring thoughtfully into the dark, giving Sherlock a good opportunity to study him with more care.

 

There must be something.

 

John was usually very easy to read, but occasionally he had a surprise up his sleeve. The best example of this, of course, was a certain cabbie with a bullet in his heart, and any time that Sherlock found himself puzzled by John, he used that memory as a reminder to sometimes look more closely at his friend than he usually did.

 

So, while John stared passively out of the window, his anger apparently in the process of subsiding, Sherlock looked.

 

Most of it was as expected; John was a creature of habits in the main, and the events of his day could be read from his body like text from a page. Coffee foam flecks in the corner of his mouth, less than two hours old, meant he'd met Stamford at that café they both liked before visiting his office at the hospital. Red ink stain on the back of his right hand said that he'd given somebody his contact details some time that afternoon and had tested the one pen he had in his pocket on his hand before putting it to paper, probably giving his details to a professional colleague, as the women he flirted with tended to put his number straight into their phones. The faint smell of burning gunpowder and oil drifted off him, far stronger than the one killing shot in the morgue could account for, so a sign of his earlier visit to the firing range. His hair was wisping up at the front which meant he'd been caught in the rain shower just after one o'clock that afternoon, so his dentist's appointment must have been cancelled...

 

But wait...no, no that couldn't be. Usually when he was annoyed John clenched his teeth, but he wasn't doing that now, though his jaw twitched every now and then, as if he were reminding himself _not_ to do it. Which meant that his mouth was still tender from the scale and polish, and whatever else the dentist had inflicted on him. So how had his hair ended up like that?

 

The only time, apart from rain, that his hair dried in that wispy, seaweedy way was when he'd been sweating heavily. But he hadn't been to the gym, his gym bag had still been on the hook in the hall when Sherlock had left to come to the hospital. He hadn't had any activities planned for the day that could have involved running, and he never got overly hot at the firing range. It was a chilly day, and even if he were in a warm room, John didn't sweat easily. What on earth could he have been up to?

 

A movement drew Sherlock's gaze away from John's hair, and he realised that John was rolling his shoulders, a slight movement that, come to think of it, he'd been repeating over and over since Sherlock had found him. Were his shoulders sore? Had some sort of psychosomatic reaction made his wound ache? Had he been lifting something heavy, and if so, what? The sides of his jacket were creased as if he had been holding something under his arms, but what could it have been? The shoulders of his jacket, too, were crumpled, as if somebody had grabbed him there, but who?

 

As Sherlock mulled this over, frowning, John turned suddenly to look at him, and Sherlock abruptly felt a pang of self-consciousness at having been caught staring so intently.

 

“What?” John asked him, and Sherlock shook his head.

 

He didn't like being caught out. “I was just wondering, John. That's the second time since you left the army that you've been called upon to shoot a person dead. One might wonder how a civilised man is made to feel.”

 

He'd meant the comment to put John ill enough at ease to make him be quiet, so Sherlock could go back to peering at him. The sour little tuck that appeared under John's lips, however, told him that perhaps he'd gone a little past that mark.

 

“As far as I'm concerned, Sherlock,” John bit out, again making an effort not to clench his teeth, “the fact that you and Molly are now alive makes up for the fact that two other people are not. If that makes me uncivilised in your book, then I'll happily be uncivilised, thanks.”

 

He very deliberately turned his attention back to the window, rubbing the knuckles of his left hand with the fingertips of his right, his jaw tight and his back tense. Sherlock stared at him a little longer, then sighed and sank down a bit in the seat. The silence in the back of the car was heavy. The driver glanced at them in his rear view mirror and Sherlock shot him a glare.

 

Bugger.

 

What could possibly have put him in such a foul mood? After shooting the cabbie John had practically been _high_ , cheerfully digging into Chinese food and regaling Sherlock with army stories. Now this.

 

Wait...could it be something to do with Molly?

 

Sherlock had been told the details of John's pursuit of the man who had taken Molly hostage, and had a rough idea, based on hearsay and his knowledge of John, of what had actually happened down in the morgue. In any other situation of this type, John's primary reactions would be of satisfaction at having accomplished what he set out to do and relief at having come out of it alive.

 

But not this time. No, this had to be Molly's fault somehow. She and John had been gone for well over half an hour together, she must have said something, done something, to put John on edge. And of course, she was vulnerable and upset and female, so John would have been too blasted noble to do the sensible thing and tell her to shut up. So here he was, taking it out on Sherlock instead!

 

Damn!

 

What could she have done, though? While annoying, she wasn't the type to be openly insulting or insensitive. What could possibly have aggravated John to this degree?

 

Sherlock was still sifting through possibilities ten minutes later, when John patted him on the arm with the back of his hand, as if too angry to touch him with the palm, to signal him to get out of the taxi. They were back at Baker Street. The temperature had dropped, Sherlock noticed, as he followed John out of the car, and a light drizzle was starting to fall. They crossed the pavement and, just before Sherlock reached for the door, it was opened by Mrs Hudson who peered out at them worriedly.

 

“Both okay?” she asked, as she stepped back to let them in. John reassured her as Sherlock set up off the stairs. He could hear them both following him up so he left the door wide open and hung up his coat, before dropping into his armchair and curling up his legs.

 

“It was on the news a few minutes ago, and I knew you'd gone there earlier,” Mrs Hudson was explaining to John as they came into the flat.

 

“It was a bit nasty for a while, but only one man was killed in the end,” John reassured her.

 

“One criminal and one security guard, actually,” Sherlock specified. “Which one were you referring to, John?”

 

John gave him a narrow look, worked his jaw a bit. “The guard, I meant.”

 

Mrs Hudson glanced between them, obviously bubbling with concern and curiosity, and for once Sherlock found himself silently urging her to stick her oar in, if only to break the unnerving tension that had appeared between himself and John.

 

“Was anybody you knew involved?” she asked eventually.

 

“Molly was,” Sherlock told her with a sigh, eyes following John who went into the kitchen. “It was mostly confined to the lower floors of the hospital though, so-”

 

“Oh that poor girl!” Mrs Hudson cried. “Is she alright?”

 

Sherlock felt his nostrils twitch. “She wasn't hurt. John-”

 

“Oh what a relief!” Mrs Hudson interrupted again. “Did they catch all the people that broke in?”

 

“Yes, though one was dead already,” Sherlock replied, as John walked back into the room carrying a glass of water and the aspirin jar. “And of course I had to point out to them the fact that there had been an inside man, working in the hospital's department of-”

 

“Oh, I _am_ glad you're both alright,” Mrs Hudson gushed crossing the room to place her hands on John's shoulders as he knocked back the first of his pills. “It's so frightening, what you get up to sometimes. I can hardly bear to hear about it!”

 

“Well as long as you keep interrupting, you won't hear anything much,” Sherlock replied acidly. John and Mrs Hudson both gave him a good hard glare, and he pulled his legs up further into the seat of the chair and turned away from them.

 

John gulped loudly on his second aspirin, then Sherlock heard him get to his feet.

 

“Try not to worry too much, Mrs Hudson. Sherlock and I were never in any real danger. And Molly got away with only bruises and shock. We're alright.”

 

“Are you sure you don't-”

 

“We're fine, Mrs Hudson. Please, don't worry.”

 

John's voice had taken on the soothing tones that he only ever used on Sherlock when he was injured. He felt a very slight pang of jealousy, and he turned his head just enough to see Mrs Hudson stretch up to kiss John's cheek. She left, and John put his glass back in the kitchen, then came out into the living room again to remove his jacket and hang it up. He paused, his back to the room for a moment, and Sherlock thought he was going to say something important. But John just sighed and turned around to face him.

 

“I'm going to turn in, Sherlock. Try to keep it quiet, alright? I could really do with a good night's sleep.”

 

Sherlock turned his face away, and John gave another sigh and went off up the stairs, his footsteps heavy.

 

In the quiet, Sherlock listened carefully for the sounds of John hanging his clothes in the wardrobe, putting things away in drawers, turning out his light. Then he rose and crossed the room to the hook where John's jacket hung, and lifted the garment up, running his eyes over it. The scent of the firing range drifted up to his nostrils, or maybe the scent of the old St Bart's morgue.

 

It occurred to him then, for the first time, that John had faced an armed criminal, who had already shot one man, without body armour or back up, without anything but his own skill and steady nerves to save him.

 

It occurred to Sherlock that he so easily might have made his way home alone tonight.

 

That just...it didn't bear thinking about, and he pushed it out of his mind, sorry that he couldn't delete it entirely, at least not until the case had been closed by the police. Life without John would be...well, it wouldn't be life, really.

 

Again he pushed the thought away and, sparing a last moment of annoyance for Molly, went into the kitchen to continue the experiment which had been interrupted earlier.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know that I promised that this story will, at some point, become light and funny. And I stand by that, really. I'm still just setting the scene, so please stick with me.  
> I love writing bratty Sherlock. For most characters that I write, I can't let them say anything really outrageous because it would be out of character. They can think it, but not say it. But Sherlock is a whole different kettle of fish. Bitchy, bitchy fish :D  
> As always, I adore comments, so if you have any feelings don't be afraid to share them. Feelings about the story that is. Or, actually, what the hell; tell me about your day, whatever. :)
> 
> Ooh, by the way, if any of you enjoyed my previous story, The Adventure of the Consulting Woman, there is now fan art for it! A lovely anon, known to me only as K, kindly sent me some paintings of John and Sherlock all dressed up and ready to go out. You can see them on my Tumblr [here](http://dancinggrimm.tumblr.com/post/37931024591/so-a-mysterious-and-talented-stranger-known-to-me) .


	4. John Thinks Things Through ('Things' being mostly sex)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He had a scar on the right side of his chest that Sherlock had taken one look at and surmised that John had been scratched by a dog. It just went to show that Sherlock's knowledge still had holes, if he couldn't identify the marks of mean girl fingernails.

 

John had slept poorly and, by morning, was not in a mood conducive to giving statements to the police. Needs must though, and he had promised Greg, so he dutifully dragged himself out of bed and off through the London drizzle to New Scotland Yard. The adrenaline (and, sadly, the endorphins) had long since worn off, and by the time he was done with the police, he was seriously flagging. Thankfully, Greg seemed to realise this and summoned up a firearms tech to give him his Browning back, before sending him home.

 

“You look like death!” Greg had said to him, oblivious to any irony, as he left.

 

By the time he got back to the flat, Sherlock had finished his experiment, and had miraculously tidied some of it away, before leaving. John was uncharacteristically glad to be alone.

 

He dropped into his armchair with a deep sigh.

 

God, he was an idiot. _Idiot!_ It was all happening again.

 

First, it was the meanest girl in his class in secondary school.

Then it was the married head of department on his uni course.

After that came his fucking drill sergeant.

The less said about his own sister's girlfriend the better.

Then the nurse (again married) who was in charge of him when he was convalescing

And most recently, his boss at the clinic.

 

Since he was fucking _fifteen_ he had been falling for exactly the people who would get him in the most fucking trouble. And yes, it was always spectacular while it lasted, but afterwards...well, he had a scar on the right side of his chest that Sherlock had taken one look at and surmised that John had been scratched by a dog. It just went to show that Sherlock's knowledge still had holes, if he couldn't identify the marks of mean girl fingernails.

 

And that was among the less unpleasant results.

 

Every damn time he went head over heels for the person who was guaranteed to cock up his life, make a mess of his career...and hurt him.

 

And now, the pinnacle of this, the absolute fucking zenith, was Sherlock Holmes.

 

He was a god damned moron.

 

Out of all of them, Sherlock was the only one who could make him so damn angry with a word or a look, who could make him, in spite of his usual self-assurance, feel like a helpless child. He took John for granted, mocked him, undermined him, led him into embarrassment and ridicule...

 

And yet John knew, unequivocally, that any loyalty he showed to Sherlock would be returned without a thought, should he need it. That, as much as Sherlock mocked the idea of trust, he trusted John. And that, no matter how much Sherlock lied to and tricked him, John could trust _him_ , when it counted.

 

He knew that Sherlock came as close as was possible, for him, to caring. Caring for John.

 

John wasn't sure if the man was even capable of love, but _he_...well, that was the issue here, wasn't it. Did he?

 

God, it _hurt_ when Sherlock behaved like he had last night. The harsh cruelty he could show, when he didn't think he needed to make the effort to behave. The disdain for people, harmless, normal people, no matter if they loved or hated him.

 

And yet, even as John was biting back fury at the way Sherlock had brushed Molly aside, his whole self had been suffused with warmth and hope at the relief in Sherlock's face as he checked John over.

 

If this _was_ love, it was unlike any other love John had ever felt. It was stranger, more brightly burning, giddying almost.

 

Stronger?

 

John realised with a start that he couldn't imagine not feeling this way about Sherlock. Whether it was romantic or merely friendly devotion, it was here to stay.

 

He was jerked from his musings by the ringing of his mobile, and he fished it out of his pocket and looked at the screen.

 

Molly.

 

After a moment of hunting for the right button, he pressed it and put the phone to his ear.

 

“Hello Molly. Everything alright?”

 

“Yes! Yes, thank you. Um...are you alright? You're not...um...”

 

“I'm fine, thanks. Though I've been at the Yard all morning giving statements. It's enough to make anyone feel a bit rough.”

 

She chuckled a bit, and John could tell that she was working up to saying something else. He kept his mouth shut. After a moment, Molly cleared her throat and spoke again.

 

“Um...I wanted to say thank you for yesterday. I mean, to say properly, because I think I said it last night but last night was...um well...thank you. I mean for, you know, taking me to one side and sorting me out.”

 

John felt his eyebrows go up.

 

“God! Oh, no, I didn't mean it like...I mean for...taking care of me. No! Oh no, that sounded... I meant for, for _seeing_ to me. Oh God!”

 

John bit the tip of his tongue, hard, until the urge to laugh dissipated. “I know what you mean, Molly. And you don't have to thank me, I was glad to be able to help.”

 

Molly gave a shaky sigh. “You're always so kind John. Really, I don't know what I'd have done if you hadn't shown up and got me to walk around, even. Without even ev-everything else, that helped _so_ much.”

 

“Least I could do,” John replied, feeling a bit bashful. “I take it you're home from hospital?”

 

“Yes, I just got back. Shock, you know, nothing serious. They set me up with an appointment with a counsellor, like you said.”

 

“How are you feeling about going back to work?”

 

Molly made a sort of cringing noise, and when she spoke again it sounded like she was forcing herself to smile, talking through her teeth. “I'm, um, nervous, a bit. But I think I'll be alright, if I stay away from where...where he took me.”

 

She broke off abruptly and John winced. “It's normal for it to be a bit daunting,” he told her, as reassuringly as he could. “See if you can stay off work until you've seen the counsellor. It'll help.” Like he had any room to talk after his therapy débâcle, but Molly was the sort that would probably find it useful. More receptive, perhaps.

 

“That's not a bad idea,” she said with a sigh. “You've been so _nice_ to me John.” She paused again and seemed to be taking a deep breath. “If...um, would you let me repay your kindness?”

 

John smiled. “That's really not necessary Molly, but thanks. I'll see you soon, I'm sure. Give me a call if you need anything, won't you.”

 

“Oh. Yes, um...yes. Thanks again John.”

 

“G'bye.”

 

“Bye,” Molly replied brightly. He thought he heard her sigh before she hung up.

 

John put his phone on the desk and sat back down. That had been nice. Molly was a nice sort of girl, though, wasn't she. He was sort of relieved to have been broken out of his earlier reverie, but he still felt the confusion hanging over him. He'd have to get himself sorted out at some point.

 

He sighed and leaned his head back against the top of the chair. There was still a damp mark on the ceiling from where Sherlock had thrown saline all over the place a few days ago. Bastard.

 

That thing with Molly...well, it hadn't left him as upset or as shocked as he thought it should have done, which was a little worrying. He _had_ killed a man. But, again, not a very nice man. Not at all. And, as he'd said to Sherlock, if it meant that Molly lived to tell the tale, he didn't have any regrets. And then...

 

Up until yesterday night, it had been over seven months since John had had carnal knowledge of anything other than his own left hand, but it hadn't felt...it was weird, but it really didn't feel, now, like he'd had sex. He supposed that it was the situation they'd been in. There had been no sense of relaxation afterwards, no alleviation of frustration.

 

It _had_ been good though. Molly was more of a heavy breather than a moaner, which _really_ did it for John. And she was a sweet girl, very pretty in her way, though not really John's type.

 

It was only really since he'd come home from Afghanistan that John had started to take relationships seriously. He'd been the sort of boy who dated a lot, maybe got his end away a few times, when he was a teenager. Then, in uni, sex was easy to come by (sometimes in the bed of one's department head which you _really_ weren't supposed to do) and dating was often just a pass-time. He'd been a bit...not really _better_ looking, but maybe fresher looking when he'd been placed in the hospital, and the stuff he and some of the other staff got up to would have seriously broken hygiene regs at times. And then, of course, the army, where sex was considered a healthy option for much needed stress relief and John had had a whole list of friends and acquaintances to whom he could go for a bunk up if he needed it, and who would often come to him in turn.

 

After he'd returned to London though, he had,at some point, decided it was time to make a change. He wanted a partner, somebody to be with and make plans with, somebody to tuck himself into bed with at the end of the day. If only he could work out if he wanted Sherlock to fill that role for him.

 

It occurred to him to feel a bit bad for having casual sex with a sort-of friend while all wound up about Sherlock, but Sherlock was oblivious to both situations anyway, so he supposed it didn't matter for the time being.

 

Actually...it had only just occurred to him that Sherlock's deductions of John's actions last night had skipped over a pretty significant event. He hadn't realised that Molly and John had had sex. How had he missed it, John wondered. It wasn't at all like Sherlock to leave anything unsaid, no matter what the situation, and it wasn't like there were many possible interpretations for the evidence. He knew that he has been sweating like a pig, and his clothes were all scrunched up. Molly had been flushed and the back of her hair had been scraped into a mess by the wall. She'd been walking very carefully too. Frankly, John was surprised that _Greg_ hadn't noticed. He'd worked out from various things Mycroft and Greg had said that Sherlock didn't have a lot of sexual experience. Surely though, he must have noticed _something_.

 

Perhaps Sherlock _had_ noticed and was waiting for the most mortifying opportunity possible to speak up about it. The very thought made John shudder.

 

Well, either way, he decided, he wouldn't say anything to Sherlock about it. He didn't really want to end up discussing his sex life with him, not when he was still so confused about his feelings for him. He'd sort himself out and make a decision. And then...

 

Then he'd most likely have to be very brave.

 

John sighed loudly into the silent room, then got to his feet and went into the kitchen to set his gun to rights.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really like writing awkward Molly, she's so damn cute :)
> 
> I also kind of think that John may have been a bit of a goer before the series, and it's relationships that he trips up on, rather than sex. So that's how I've interpreted his constant attempts at flirting and his occasionally counter-productive behaviour with women. Well, that and the fact that he's got it bad for Sherlock, natch.
> 
> Also, it's only just occurred to me, as I've been going over my notes, that as I'm planning to have each character POV as a separate chapter, this thing is going to have about 20 chapters, eventually. So when the chapters are short, I'll post two at a time. So be careful that you read them in the right order when that happens, because I've made the mistake of going to the most recent chapter when there have been two at once and it's so damn confusing and I can't cope with it and cry (not really) so just to let you know :)


	5. Molly Gets Her Dander Up (and Sherlock gets it in the neck)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> All she had to do was say the words. _'John, would you like to go out with me'_ , that was all she had to say.
> 
> She opened her mouth.
> 
> Then Sherlock popped up.

It had been easier to get back into a normal routine than Molly had expected. It helped, of course, that her co-workers were mostly very considerate and sympathetic. A lot of the people she worked with had left by the time it had all kicked off that night, and had only heard about it a couple of hours later on the news. They'd all been fully informed of what had happened to her by the time she'd come back to work, three days ago, and had been really nice, offering to walk with her if she had to go around in the basement and popping by the morgue to check on her when she was working on her own there. The counsellor had been really helpful too, and she had another appointment with him for a fortnight's time, just in case. All in all though, she was really proud of herself. Only a little over a week since she'd been taken hostage by an armed murderer and had spontaneous sex with her heroic rescuer, and she was back to work and feeling fine.

 

And to show exactly how normal things had got, here she was, in the staff room kitchen, making Sherlock tea.

 

She leaned against the worktop as she waited for the kettle to boil and wrinkled her nose in thought. It was funny, really odd, to have a crush on somebody for so long, and then just... _poof_! It was gone. She still admired him for his intelligence, naturally. She still thought he was good looking, even. But all the excitement she usually felt when he turned up just wasn't there. It was actually quite liberating, in a way.

 

It helped that she sort of had somebody else to think about now.

 

She was distracted from her thoughts when Carl from radiography walked through the arch into the kitchen and gave her a big smile. He'd been really nice to her since it had all happened. He'd always been really nice actually, but now he kept popping down to see her, asking if she wanted to be walked to the train station and things like that. It was really considerate of him.

 

“Hi Molly,” he said brightly. “Day going okay?”

 

“Yep, thanks. How about you?” The kettle clicked off and she turned around to get mugs out of the cupboard.

 

“Good, ta. Um...Molly, do you have any plans for later?”

 

Molly fetched the jar of teabags down from the top of the fridge. “Well, Sherlock Holmes is in the morgue at the moment, and you know what he's like. I'll probably have to deal with him for most of the afternoon. He always seems to turn up right when I'm busy. And John Watson will probably be here soon, too.” That was a point, she thought. Might as well make John a cup as well.

 

“Oh,” Carl said. “That sounds, um...interesting.”

 

“Never a dull moment,” Molly replied cheerily, and she put the three cups on a tray and stepped back through the arch into the staff room. One of the surgeons stopped her to talk to her about a question she'd asked him the day before regarding a scar on one of the bodies she'd handled. He only wanted to tell her a couple of things so it didn't take long, but as he moved away from her to sit back down with his newspaper, Molly noticed Zara, one of the A&E doctors, staring in her direction. Zara's face wore a look of longing that Molly knew she herself had sent after Sherlock a few too many times, and as soon as she realised Molly had seen her her, she looked away.

 

Molly turned to see who Zara had been staring at, and was surprised to find that the only person behind her was Will, the grumpy engineer who dealt with all the hospital's monitoring equipment. Will was about twenty years older than Zara, as well as being a bit sweaty and quite antisocial. But, Molly supposed, there was no accounting for taste. It was funny though; she'd thought that Zara was a lesbian.

 

She gave Zara what she hoped was an encouraging smile, and set off from the staff room in the direction of her morgue. It was the middle of most people's breaks, so there were only a few people about in this section of the hospital. It gave her just a touch of the heebie jeebies, she had to admit, to feel like she was walking alone. The sounds of voices coming from some of the offices were quite comforting though, and she concentrated on that. She was absolutely determined not to let that whole, awful event get the better of her. Of course, it helped a lot to think of what had happened afterwards, with John. That really _was_ comforting.

 

She pushed the door into the morgue open with her hip. Sherlock was still at one of the examination tables. The body of a man with full sleeve tattoos on both arms had come in, and he'd wanted to do some sort of experiment with skin scrapings involving the refractive index of samples tattooed with different colours. So there he was, bent over the corpse of a 76-year-old Hells Angel, and at the table next to him...

 

Was John.

 

His jacket and jumper were slung over a chair nearby and he'd put a lab coat on. The sleeves of the coat and his shirt were both pushed up and he had a pair of latex gloves on his hands. The body that was laid out before him was that of an as-yet-unidentified stabbing victim who had been brought in the previous evening. Most of the body was respectfully covered with sheets, and John was carefully examining the third and shallowest knife wound, the one in the lower thorax. He and Sherlock both looked up as the door closed behind Molly, and she smiled at them.

 

“Ah, tea. Thank you Molly,” Sherlock said briskly, waving a hand at the trolley next to him. She glanced at John, who rolled his eyes in Sherlock's direction, and put Sherlock's mug down next to him. She put her own mug down on the little table by the door to her office, then took the third to John.

 

“Tea!” she said, approaching him with it, and had to stifle a wince at how stupidly perky she sounded. He turned, eyebrows raised in pleased surprise.

 

“That's nice of you Molly, thanks,” he said, and he raised the mug to her in a little salute before taking a sip.

 

She turned to look at what he was doing; the body had already been examined by the police surgeons, who had confirmed that the tip of the weapon, whatever it had been, was stuck in the left ninth rib. They hadn't tried to retrieve it yet as they had a clear image of it from the x-rays, but it seemed that Sherlock wasn't prepared to wait for them to finish the job. John had opened the wound a little wider and it looked like he'd been trying to hold the incision open with one pair of forceps and fishing around inside with another pair. Molly felt a little twinge of professional despair; it was clear to see he was used to working on the living.

 

“How are you getting along?” she asked, indicating the body. John sighed and put his mug down.

 

“It's tricky work, Molly. I can get hold of the thing, but I can't get the angle to pull it out.”

 

Just like Molly had thought; he was approaching it as if he had to get a bit of shrapnel out of a _live_ patient. The wound was a shallow one, at a close angle to the body. It hadn't done much damage, but was the last wound inflicted, probably before the murderer realised they'd already dealt a fatal blow. If Molly had done this herself, she would simply have cut open the skin above the spot where the tip was lodged, but John had gone through the existing channel. She looked over the instrument tray and picked up a large pair of tweezers, long and narrow enough to reach the rib through the incision and angled enough at the tip that they would be able to cut through any bits of flesh that got in the way.

 

“Let me try,” she offered, and John stepped to one side, reaching out for the first set of forceps and holding the wound open with them. Molly pressed the tweezers inside and felt around with the tip. They scraped against the bone of the ninth rib, then encountered the smooth metal of the weapon fragment. She heard Sherlock mutter something, and a little touch of anger went through her when she realised he had said something about her. She glanced at John, who was levelling a glare in Sherlock's direction, but Sherlock didn't look up.

 

Molly ignored him and concentrated. The tip was not only caught in the bone, but also in the intercostal muscle tissue, which made it difficult to get a decent grip on. As she'd hoped though, the sharp edges of the tweezers scraped down to the base of the fragment, where it was most deeply lodged, and with a good firm tug, she was able to pull it free.

 

“Oh, nicely done Molly,” John said happily, as she dropped the shiny fragment into the tray he held out. He was smiling as he stared at it and she felt her cheeks colour a little. He looked so lovely when he smiled, his usually serious face becoming charmingly boyish. He looked up at her and, for a moment, she was staring straight into his lovely dark blue eyes. She could see little golden brown flecks around his pupils which she'd never noticed before. She could have stared at them all day.

She was determined now; she was going to ask John out. All she had to do was say the words. ' _John, would you like to go out with me_ ', that was all she had to say.

 

She opened her mouth.

 

Then Sherlock popped up.

 

“You got it then,” he said, peering into the tray.

 

“Actually,” John began, “it was Molly that-”

 

“The police are idiots,” Sherlock interrupted. “I can hardly believe they think they're looking for a _kitchen_ knife.”

 

“Um, well...glad I could help,” Molly said.

 

“ _Did_ you help?” Sherlock asked lightly. He plucked the tweezers out of her hand and used them to pick up the blade fragment.

 

“Molly made very quick work of it, actually,” John said, his voice edged with tension.

 

Sherlock shrugged and wandered off to look at the fragment under one of the lights.

 

John turned to her with a sigh. “Ignore him Molly, I don't know what's been wrong with him the past few days.”

 

“It's okay, John. I'm used to him,” Molly replied. _Try again, try again!_ a voice in her head insisted, and she decided to heed it. “John, would you like-”

 

“I was right about the workshop, John. There were definitely at least three essential tools missing and this tip is from one of them,” Sherlock cut in.

 

Molly felt her face get hot, and John turned to Sherlock with a frown. “Do you mind? Molly was saying something!”

 

Sherlock made a _harrumph_ noise and kept his eyes on his work.

 

“Sorry Molly, what were you saying?”

 

“Um...” Damn it, she'd lost all of her steam now! “Well, I just wanted...um...”

 

“Oh spit it out, for heaven's sake,” Sherlock drawled from across the room.

 

Sudden anger welled up in Molly, making her stomach clench and her nerves sizzle. John snapped Sherlock's name again, but before he could say more, Molly opened her mouth and spat out the words she should have said a long damn time ago.

 

“I'm _sick_ of you acting like that Sherlock!” she cried, her voice echoing around the morgue. Sherlock snapped upright and turned to stare at her. “There's absolutely no reason to be so nasty to me all the time. And you know what else? There's no reason why I should go out of my way, all the time, to help you get bits of corpses and do experiments and whatever else you want to do, at the drop of a hat. I _don't have to do it!_ But I do it anyway, because you solve crimes and it does some good for other people. But damn it, I deserve some respect, because I'm really bloody good at my job. And if you can't show me that respect, then you can bugger off and bother Doctor McGreaghan on the other shift, because you won't get anything else out of me!”

 

She took a deep breath and felt it all the way down to her stomach. Her eyes were sore and her knees were doing some sort of quivery thing, but _damn_ it, she felt good!

 

Sherlock eyed her coolly for long seconds, and Molly forced herself to stand firm, to not move a muscle, her eyes boring in to him. Then, with fluid, brisk movements, Sherlock stripped off his gloves, picked up his coat and the box of skin scrapings, and swept out of the morgue without a backward glance.

 

Molly let her breath sigh out of her and her shoulders droop. Oh god! Either she was never going to hear the end of this, or they've have to ignore that it had happened and try to get on with things, and either way was going to be just horrible, awkward and disappointing, and-

 

John's hand landed heavily on her shoulder, and she started for a moment, thinking he was cross, before she realised that he was patting her there.

 

“Well done, Molly,” he said. Then he too peeled off his gloves, gathered up his things, and set off.

 

Molly watched him go and felt something bright and happy creep up inside her.

 

She'd been an idiot for so long, but now she was on the right track.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, those people in the break room were totally hot for Molly, and she totally didn't notice. It occurred to me that this would be quite likely for her, as absorbed as she seems to get by crushes. And also, she's quite a catch, especially in an environment like a hospital with a lot of research going on. In my experience, people with academic leanings tend to value the brainy, up-beat, hard-working type, and of course, she's seriously pretty to boot. So yes, if only she'd pay a bit more attention. Ah well.
> 
> It was oddly satisfying having her tell Sherlock off. I think I might have to come up with excuses to write this scenario again, sometime.


	6. Sherlock is in a Snit (poor John)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Experiment going okay?” John asked casually. “Managed not to singe your hair on the burner again, I see.”
> 
> Sherlock swept that unnecessary comment away with a one-handed gesture. “It's fine, John. I wanted to ask you about Molly.”
> 
> John's shoulders tensed.

 

Sherlock sat at the kitchen table and stared blankly at the experiment in front of him. He hated being distracted, but he'd had a rotten morning and it was currently all he could do not to fume.

 

What the hell had gotten into Molly?

 

He'd thought that the little outburst a few days ago had been exceptional. A one-off, never to occur again. And he knew Molly well enough to know that she'd be embarrassed by it, and so had decided for both their sakes to just pretend that it had never happened.

 

But today she'd done it again. Sherlock hadn't even said anything to her this time! He'd arrived at the morgue before she started her shift and so had let himself into her office to get the files on a poisoning victim (son did it), a perfectly reasonable thing to do as it had saved him time and had meant that he didn't have to pester her for the key as soon as she turned up. But no, she'd been furious at him for picking the lock, and had gone on another tirade about over-stepping boundaries.

 

He'd picked the lock! The boundary had been removed! How could he possibly over-step something that wasn't there any more?

And of course, in that mood, she was far less susceptible to Sherlock's usual manipulation techniques than she was normally, which was highly inconvenient. He had made a mild but positive comment on the blouse she was wearing, which would usually illicit blushing acquiescence, but today she'd told him to shut up.

 

It didn't seem like she was angry with anyone other than him though, so it couldn't be that a general bad mood had turned her against him. It was more like she had shed some of her nerves. Become more assertive, even. But what could have had such an effect? In most cases in which a person was a victim of a kidnapping they became more ill at ease, especially when returning to the places in which the crimes occurred. But somehow, despite her usual uninspiring predictability, Molly had had the opposite reaction.

 

How? And why? Had there been some aspect to the crime that Sherlock hadn't been aware of? That thought rankled, but sadly it was possible. He'd been far too distracted by John that night, far too unsettled to hear that he had disappeared after shooting the criminal who'd hidden in the morgue. He'd been worried, and it had made him sloppy. Shameful.

 

Though perhaps John could make it up to him.

 

Sherlock turned off the valve on the top of his gas canister and the flame on the Bunsen burner went out with a _whoosh_. He rose and, leaving the rest of his equipment on the table for later, walked into the living room. John sat at the table with a pile of newspapers at his elbow and a large, blank book in front of him. He'd developed the habit, recently, of cutting out articles that mentioned Sherlock or, indeed, John himself, and keeping them in a scrap book. It was a pointless pass-time, Sherlock felt, but John seemed to find it satisfying. When questioned, he'd said that it felt like an extension of how he used his blog, documenting Sherlock's career. Again, pointless...but Sherlock found it hard to deny John anything that he found such obvious enjoyment in. And perhaps it was just a little flattering, not that he'd ever admit to it.

 

He stood over John's shoulder until John snapped out of his Pritt-Stick-and-clipping daze and twisted to look up at him.

 

“Experiment going okay?” John asked casually. “Managed not to singe your hair on the burner again, I see.”

 

Sherlock swept that unnecessary comment away with a one-handed gesture. “It's fine, John. I wanted to ask you about Molly.”

 

John's shoulders tensed, and Sherlock became more certain than ever that John's behaviour the night of the shooting had been due to some silly thing she'd done. “I want to know what's happened to her,” he demanded, more force than was probably necessary in his voice. “She's becoming unmanageable, and I think it might have something to do with the time she was with you.”

 

John coughed suddenly, scattering bits of newspaper around the table. Sherlock leaned down to peer at his face, and saw that he'd turned quite red.

 

“What's the matter?”

 

“Um...Sherlock, when you say the time she was-”

 

Sherlock interrupted. “I mean when you were walking around the grounds with her. Did she seem...” he wasn't sure what he wanted to ask, exactly. 'Did she seem like she wanted to expunge frustration at me' was a ridiculous question.

 

When he fell silent, John turned properly in his seat and looked at him steadily for a moment, before his eyebrows lifted. “Did Molly tell you off again?” he asked.

 

Sherlock scowled. “She shouted at me for picking the lock on her office door, even though I've done it often before now, and she's never complained.”

 

“Well, I think you deserved that one,” John opined, a mean little smile quirking the corners of his mouth. “She's finally realised that she doesn't have to let you get away with all your usual performances. Good for Molly, I say.”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth. “What has caused her to become like this, John,” he said firmly, dragging them back to the important topic. “Did you say something to her after the incident in the old morgue?”

 

John shrugged and started gathering his scattered bits of paper back together. “Not...no, I don't think so. Nothing relevant to this situation with you.”

 

Sherlock sighed, scratched at his hair a bit, then stepped around to the other side of the table and dropped into the chair.

 

“Could it be, perhaps, the fact that she came so close to death? I've heard tell of people becoming fearless after such experiences.”

 

John stared at him for a few seconds, his hands stilling among the little stacks of paper. Then he pursed his lips and frowned in a way that Sherlock recognised meant he was trying to work out how to phrase something.

 

“Well,” he began after a few moments of consideration, “I don't think fearless is the right term. It's more like...imagine you'd been frightened of a specific thing all your life, then one day you encounter this thing that you were scared of, and find that actually, it's harmless. Not even frightening in appearance, and it can't actually hurt you or intimidate you the way you expected it to.”

 

Sherlock nodded, recalling with clarity the first time he had held a grasshopper, Mycroft's voice in his ear telling him that there was no way it could get all the way up to his bedroom window, and even if it could, could he see any teeth? No, he couldn't.

 

John continued; “Well, instead of that specific fear, an experience like this...it sort of takes those _formless_ fears, the ones people experience every day - accidents and injuries and humiliation – whatever they might be, and puts them all into context. The worst happened, and you came out of it alright, and...yes, perhaps it's that she feels more self-assured now, rather than fearless. She's been tested and knows that she can cope.”

 

John's eyes, which had been far away while he spoke, focussed on Sherlock, and Sherlock nearly gave a start. As irrational as it seemed, something appeared to have changed in John in those few moments. Something that Sherlock was certain was more prominent in John-the-soldier had now found it's way into John-the-flatmate and it jarred discomfortingly.

 

“Is that what happened to you when you were shot?” he found himself asking, and John surprised him by shaking his head.

 

“No, not really. I was too immured to the danger we were in all the time for that to really come as a shock. I mean, obviously I was frightened, and the pain was incredible, but that wasn't what really tested me. It was after that.”

 

“The depression?” Sherlock asked, and this time John nodded.

 

“It...I didn't expect it, and it hit me so hard,” John said, his voice flat. “I couldn't make sense of it at all, it was like something in me had been switched off. But not all at once, gradually. Which made me feel like I'd done something wrong, like I'd let it happen, or even invited it. And it was just....my _life_ was just this great, blank, grey thing, stretching ahead of me for far too long a way.”

 

Sherlock shifted uncomfortably in his seat and nodded, hoping it would prompt John to go on.

 

“So, that was my test,” John concluded. “And really, I don't know if I can count myself as having passed it or not. Because you came along, being all... _mad_ , and snapped me out of it. But perhaps that _was_ how I passed,” he continued, his voice becoming strangely closed, as if he were speaking to himself. “Maybe it didn't just come down to pulling myself up by my bootstraps or...or...”

 

“What?” Sherlock asked.

 

John shook himself, as if cold. “I mean, maybe there was a third way, not just pass or fail. Maybe just giving in to all the mad stuff was my way out.” He shrugged and turned his attention back to his scrapbook as if trying to put the conversation out of mind.

 

“You think that Molly feels changed by her experience then?” Sherlock asked.

 

John shrugged. “It's a possibility,” he said. “But one possibility of many. It could be that...something else happened that just cheered her up a bit, and she gathered the nerve to tell you what she thought of you.”

 

“That isn't helpful,” Sherlock told him.

 

“Well, that's life,” John replied, and he managed a little mischievous smile up at Sherlock from under his lashes, as he took the lid off his Pritt Stick and settled back in with his clippings.

 

Sherlock watched him for a while, chewing over what John had told him while he watched those dexterous, square hands carefully sticking all the little odds and ends of stories into place. John's face was composed but not quite calm, and Sherlock wondered if talking so frankly about his traumatising experiences had made him...what? Uneasy? Sad? Upset?

 

Emotions had always been difficult for Sherlock. As long as they were confined to statistics and profiles he could understand them, but this...

 

Every now and then he envied John his...perhaps not his feelings, no, more like his empathy. His understanding. And maybe, he had to admit, he would have found certain aspects of his own life easier if he had been able, as John was, to look inside himself. He wondered if the value of that introspective ability offset the pain it could no doubt bring.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really thought that this was going to be a fun, silly story. But then, when I started off writing The Orchard, I thought that that was going to be all angsty, so it just goes to show that my muses are dickish and also, possibly, drunk.
> 
> I'm not sure where the idea for John keeping scrapbooks came from, but it just seems like the sort of thing he'd do. Maybe not long term, but while he and Sherlock are at this point in their career, it sort of makes sense. I think Sherlock will squirrel those scrapbooks away somewhere and, when they're old and grey, he'll whip them out every once in a while and tease John about what a saddo he was, sitting at the table for hours on end, putting them together. Then he'll apologise and they'll snuggle and look at photo albums of their grand-kids or whatever. Aw.
> 
> Also, a snit is an English phrase meaning a bout of bad temper, or even a tantrum. I like this word and use it a lot.
> 
> BTW, Pritt is copyright to...whoever owns the copyright. It's the name of a brand of glue that's common in the UK and, I think, most of Europe. A Pritt Stick is a glue stick that winds up from the bottom of the tube and that sometimes Greek exchange students who you share a house with in uni find on your desk and mistake for lip balm and there's a big fuss and you have to drive them to the doctor's surgery. But only sometimes.


	7. John Feels Popular (and no reason why he shouldn't)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After a delightful hour of listening to a hypochondriacal patient list imaginary symptoms and show him dog-eared pages in a health magazine, John was starting to think that being Sherlock's guinea pig for the day might actually have been more relaxing.

 

It was a quiet day at the surgery, and thank heaven for that. John was sorely in need of some quiet. A series of minor but satisfyingly fiddly cases had sent Sherlock into a whirlwind of activity and neither of them had had a minute to rest for the last five days as a result. He would have turned the day's work down, actually, had it not been for Sarah sounding so stressed on the phone. Of course, there was also the fact that, had he stayed at home and attempted to rest, he would almost certainly have been dragged into one of Sherlock's experiments. And given the state of distracted confusion he'd been in recently, that would pretty much constitute a death sentence.

 

After a delightful hour of listening to a hypochondriacal patient list imaginary symptoms and show him dog-eared pages in a health magazine, John was starting to think that being Sherlock's guinea pig for the day might actually have been more relaxing. He calmed the man down however, checked him over for various things and, having reassured him, escorted him out of the surgery. Sarah stuck her head out the door of her office and gave him a grateful look.

 

“You had Mr Mattley? Well done, John. Did he turn up early again?”

 

“No,” John replied. “Why?”

 

Sarah shrugged. “You must have gotten through his list quick then. I usually schedule him in for about ninety minutes, it's only been fifty since his appointment time though.” She gave him a pleased smile, then ducked back into her office as Miranda, the bossy receptionist, turned towards them. John gave Miranda a thin smile and made for the safety of his own office before she could tell him off for anything.

 

He had a few minutes before his next patient, having dealt with Mattley's records before the man left, so he took his phone out of his briefcase, sat down and checked his messages. There was a text from Molly;

 

_Hi John! Have you seen that film Corner of a Foreign Field yet? I thought it might be your kind of thing. It's on tonight at the Prince Charles if you're interested. I've been wanting to see it for a while. Let me know! :D_

 

John smiled. It was nice of her to think of him. He texted back;

 

_Hi Molly. I have seen it and its realy good. You should go. Are you taknig somebdy on a date?_

 

He sort of hoped she was, it'd be nice to see her going out with somebody decent for a change. Then he shook his head at himself; he always got overprotective of the women he slept with and, really, he had no right to. It's not like a quickie against a wall at times of stress constituted any kind of relationship. Even when it was, admittedly, a very good quickie.

 

Almost as soon as he'd sent the text, his phone played a few bars of Phantom of the Opera and a text from Sherlock appeared.

 

_John, which of your medical journals was it that showed the scarring on the remaining sector of a liver that had been partially donated?_

 

John could only recall the year that that one had been published in, but Sherlock would find it soon enough with that data. He texted his answer quickly, then glanced at the clock. A new patient was due any moment so, worried that more texts from Sherlock might be forthcoming, he put his phone on silent and slipped it into his shirt pocket. Sure enough, seconds later and almost simultaneously, a knock sounded at the door and his phone vibrated.

 

The patient was a little girl with her nineteen year old brother. Both had tonsillitis and John diagnosed it quickly, gave them their prescriptions and made the necessary comments about rest and ice cream, at which both sets of eyes lit up. Once they were on their way, he slipped his phone out again and found, to his mild surprise, another text from Molly.

 

_I don't have a date actually. I wonder who I could ask...;-)_

 

John chuckled. Bless her. She had no idea how many pairs of eyes followed her around the hospital, did she.

 

_I thnik you could have your pick Molly. That chap in radiolgoy is keen and a few others though I dont kno there departments._

 

He knew who she'd _like_ to take out, of course. It had always been a bit hard to see her pining for Sherlock, knowing that he didn't return her feelings, when she was so head over heels. It was good that she was managing to stand up for herself to him though, and rather pleasing on some level to see Sherlock get told off. He was seeing a whole new side to Molly that quite impressed him, and he hoped that the positive change would continue. She was a lovely girl, after all, she deserved to be able to go out and do the things she wanted without her self consciousness tripping her up every way she turned. He wished he could say something reassuring like that to her, see if she'd listen, but he didn't feel he was really close enough to her to pull it off. Though, actually, their little chat via text was quite chummy, wasn't it. Just think; not so long ago she couldn't even remember his name!

 

His phone vibrated again as he finished up his last two patients' notes, and he pulled it out to see another message from Sherlock.

 

_John, would you expect a two year old surgery scar (kidney removed for donation) to look like this? The patient claims there has been no further trauma to the region since the scar healed._

 

John opened the attached photo and grimaced. Sounded like Sherlock was working on something nasty. He glanced at the clock; only an hour and a half until he could go and join him.

 

_No thats more recent then two yers. What aer you working on? I'll be back ina couple of hours if you need me._

 

He got his phone back into his pocket just as his next patient walked in, without knocking. Bloody rude, John thought. While he was looking at the middle-aged woman's frankly revolting feet and arranging an appointment for her with the chiropodist, he felt his phone buzz again. Ooh, and again! Mrs Backshall glared at him, possibly because she had heard it, but equally likely she just felt like glaring. According to some of the other doctors, she'd found nothing but fault with the staff of the surgery since they'd barred her from bringing her bitey dachshund with her to her appointments.

 

Once she was gone, details of her appointment clutched in her hand like she expected to be mugged for them, John checked his phone again. He was certainly popular today. Molly first;

 

_Do you know any good restaurants John? I really fancy a nice meal out. Anywhere you particularly like? :)_

 

He wondered, as he typed his reply, how she made all those little faces on her phone.

 

_Hvae you tried the Hay Wagon on Buyers Street. Very nice food and its quite so you can have a chat. Sherlock took me their a while ago one of his beetter ideas._

 

He sent it, then paused before looking at his other message. Maybe he should try and give her a bit of encouragement.

 

_This bloke you're gonig out with is lucky. It's nice off you to plan a date so well._

 

The second message was from Sherlock;

 

_John, I need to know about emergency appendectomies._

 

Oh christ, John thought. What now?

 

_Waht exactly do you need to know. Phone me if you need alot of detail._

 

He thought for a moment before sending it, then felt a little twinge of mischief and added;

_I think Molly is datig some body fro the hospital._

 

Because he needed to make himself more confused over Sherlock by baiting him with a foiled crush. He sighed and sent the message.

 

Another text buzz, and John found that Molly had sent him another little face. No message, just ':)'. What did that mean? Well, he supposed it was good. It was smiling, after all. She was probably too busy dealing with the preparations for her date to reply properly. Women seemed to have all a whole list of things to do before dates. Shaving things and plucking things and other stuff to do with their hair.

 

He was about to press the intercom button when his phone started vibrating in little jolts, indicating a call. He located and pressed the answer button, registering Sherlock's name on the screen as he put it up to his ear.

 

“About the emergency appendectomy,” Sherlock said without preamble.

 

“Yes, what did you actually want to know?”

 

“I need to know how to perform one, John.”

 

John had to pause for a moment and try, at least _try_ , to come up with some reason for Sherlock wanting to know this other than the obvious. He couldn't do it.

 

“Sherlock, who are you planning to perform it on? And where are you? And-”

 

“All these questions aren't helping, John! I need to know!”

 

John shook his head firmly, even though Sherlock couldn't see it. “Nope, you are telling me where you are and I am calling an ambulance. You can't do that kind of surgery without proper training, Sherlock, it's not like fishing out a splinter.”

 

“But _Joooohn_!” Sherlock whined.

 

“No! Location!” John ordered, and Sherlock pettishly revealed that he was in, of all places, the Royal Infirmary. John sighed, and managed to use the office phone to call his contact there, Dr Malik, while successfully giving Sherlock a stern talking to on his mobile.

 

About two hours later, on his way home, he got a call from Dr Malik saying that the surgery had gone perfectly well and that Sherlock had had his face pressed up against the window of the operating theatre for the duration, like a child staring out of a train carriage.

 

John burst out laughing, startling everyone else on the bus.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A few notes; I made up (or at least I think I did) the film title Corner of a Foreign Field, which is a reference to the poem The Soldier by Rupert Brooke, written during the First World War. The Prince Charles Cinema, just off Leicester Square, played host to Sherlopalooza 2012 (which was awesome!). References to anything else, such as the restaurant, are completely fabricated. The spelling mistakes in John's text messages are deliberate; I used this in The Acronym too, and sort of liked it. It feels fitting that he doesn't try too hard when he's texting, because to him it's not really a way of communicating important things.
> 
> Molly's dialogue is based on my first ever attempt at asking a boy out. Sadly, I never got any better at it. :(


	8. Molly Victorious (Long to reign over us)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> No matter how difficult it felt, no matter the potential for embarrassment, she would work up her nerve and ask him to go on a date with her. After all, he'd shot somebody in the head for her. The least she could do for him was speak up!

 

 

Molly was not to be put off by her failed attempts at flirting by text, no way. It made a sort of sense, really, she decided, that John hadn't realised she was trying to ask him out. He never seemed to put much stock in texting and, though very direct in person, could be a bit vague when using other forms of communication. His blog posts, for example, tended to leave details out of the reports their investigations, which she'd heard Sherlock complaining bitterly about on several occasions.

 

No, she decided, the way to go would be to ask John out directly. No matter how difficult it felt, no matter the potential for embarrassment, she would work up her nerve and ask him to go on a date with her. After all, he'd shot somebody in the head for her. The least she could do for him was speak up!

 

Nice Mike Stamford had mentioned to her, on the morning of the Monday after her text based attempt, that he was expecting Sherlock to 'invade' (his choice of words) the lab that afternoon. John hardly ever worked Mondays at the surgery, so there was a fair chance that he'd be there too. And okay, Sherlock would be there as well, but she could always get John to step outside with her if her nerves weren't up to asking him out with an audience present.

 

And, well...she sort of had a secret weapon. Or she might have, she hadn't really had chance to practice it on anyone. But she'd watched the film again last night and had rewound the scene in the beauty parlour four times, and her friend Natasha had told her it had worked once when she'd dropped a fork in front of a man she had her eye on, so Molly was feeling fairly confident.

 

She went over to the lab at about three (a quiet hour in the morgue, as a rule) and tapped lightly on the door before pushing it open. Sherlock was totally absorbed in whatever he was looking at through the microscope, but John looked up when she stepped inside and smiled pleasantly at her.

 

“Hi guys. Just thought I'd come and say...um...hi.”

 

“Alright Molly,” John replied easily.

 

He had the newspaper spread out on the table in front of him, and as she walked into the room, he read something out from it.

 

“Seventeen down, five letters. 'More lice are found to contain what remains'. Second letter's an E. Any thoughts?”

 

John didn't seem to be making any effort to solve the clue himself, and Sherlock let out a huff of annoyance , not glancing up from the microscope.

 

“The answer is 'relic' John, obviously.”

 

“Aha,” John responded, his eyebrows quirking up as the corners of his mouth quirked down. Molly was glad she wasn't the only one who didn't think it was obvious. The pen scritched against the paper as John filled the boxes in with exaggerated care.

 

She smiled as she watched. It was sweet how John looked after Sherlock, keeping him distracted from all the stuff whirling about in his head. Despite all the silly things Sherlock got up to, John always took care of him and she so admired him for it. He was a good man.

 

A good looking one as well, she thought, wondering how she could have gone so long without noticing. His light hair was smoothed down neatly and she could remember how soft it felt. The deep lines in his face shifted and became like a second layer of happiness when he smiled across the table at something Sherlock said. He wore a white shirt with light green pinstripes on it, and a navy blue cardigan over the top, along with brown cord trousers. The combination shouldn't really have worked on anyone other than an old man, but somehow it suited John down to the ground. A dangerous, dynamic man, disguised as somebody harmless.

 

Slung over the back of his tall chair was his jacket, the black one with the leather patches on the elbows and shoulder. She’d always rather liked that one. If they went on a date and she got cold, maybe he’d take it off and put it around her so she was warmed by his residual body heat. Maybe after he’d slipped it around her shoulders, he’d keep hold of the front edges and use them to pull her close to him...

 

Oh God! She'd just had a romantic fantasy about him while she was standing right behind him! She was _so_ glad that Sherlock was still looking down the microscope.

 

Okay; it was time. John had put his pen down on the edge of the table by his elbow while he flicked through the pages to look at the TV listings. Molly took a deep breath, smoothed her open lab coat back from her hips and repeated her mantra to herself.

 

_Bend and snap. Bend. And. Snap._

 

Smooth bend down, straighten up rapidly, snap hands back towards shoulders, palms out, to emphasize bust. Easy.

 

She could do this.

 

Making it look as casual as possible, she stepped up to the table next to John, placed her hand on the surface next to the pen, then swept it off.

 

“Oh! Sorry John.”

 

Oh damn it, _damn it_! The pen rolled under the table, she couldn't do the bend properly!

 

“No worries,” John said lightly, and he got off his seat, turned, and bent down to reach under the table and

 

Get.

 

That.

 

_Arse_!

 

Oh gosh that was a nice one.

 

She'd always liked Sherlock's bum, which was more the plump, curvy type. John's bottom was flatter but firm and nicely defined. She could see the contours of his gluteus maximus muscles through even the thick corduroy. Easily as nice as Sherlock's actually, she decided. Less grabbable but equally nice, and perhaps a bit more...

 

Masculine, perhaps.

 

All this crossed her mind in the couple of seconds it took for him to grab the pen and straighten up, and she suddenly knew that, if she made eye contact with him now, with the image of his nice bum still fresh in her mind, she would blush like mad. Desperate for something else to fix her gaze on when he turned to her, her eyes roamed the room and settled on Sherlock.

 

He wasn't looking down the microscope any more. He was staring right at her.

 

He didn't look happy.

 

Oh no, he'd worked out what she was doing! He knew that she wanted to ask John out! He was going to cock everything up, she just knew it and then-

 

Wait! He didn't look annoyed or snotty or anything else like she'd have expected. He looked... _horrified_ , like he thought she was going to do something awful.

 

And then Molly remembered; she wasn't a silly girl with a crush on Sherlock any more. She didn't have to scuttle about at his heels trying to impress him. She didn't have to worry about the nasty things he said. Feeling a surge of confidence, and the recedence of the threatening blush from her face, she turned to John as he slipped back onto his seat and smiled.

 

“John, how do you think this outfit looks?” she asked lightly. She was genuinely pleased with today's outfit, actually. It was a green and black polka dot circle skirt she'd bought in the sales at Monsoon a while ago, and a black blouse with frilly bits around the collar. Armand, the security guard, had already told her she looked pretty when she'd arrived that morning.

 

John was perhaps a bit surprised, but looked her up and down willingly and gave her a small, warm smile. “You look very nice Molly. Special occasion?”

 

“Nope, just felt like a bit of a change,” she replied.

 

John turned back to his paper and Molly headed for the door, but before she went out, she turned and glanced back into the room.

 

Sherlock was staring at her, suspicious and uncomfortable, and he watched her leave like he thought she was a danger.

 

The expression that formed on Molly's face didn't feel familiar, but she thought it might be a look of victory.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh goodness this was fun to write :D  
> For those who haven't seen it, the 'bend and snap' move is from the film Legally Blonde (here; http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X-4tIs00NvM it starts at about 1.15, if you're in a hurry) which is a good, daft laugh.  
> I hate cryptic crossword puzzles, but love those circle skirts Monsoon makes so damn many of.  
> And yes, Armand the security guard is another of Molly's unnoticed admirers.  
> And the title is a reference to the English national anthem, God Save the Queen. Louise Brealey for Regent!


	9. Sherlock Gets in Touch with His Emotions (the horror, the horror)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Was this what introspection was like? How could John stand it? It was so...woolly!

 

Rush hour was long over by the time Sherlock set off for home, but the taxi still crawled along. It was a rainy night and the poor visibility had caused an accident on a motorway somewhere, which meant that large areas of central London were gridlocked with the overflow of traffic. John had left the hospital several hours earlier, and the vision of him sitting comfortably in his chair, warm and calm, at home, was about the only thing that prevented Sherlock from violently rendering his cab driver unconscious when the man began singing along with his Dido album.

 

He shouldn't have been in the lab until this late really, but his experiment had taken far longer than he'd expected it to. Molly's interruption had disturbed his concentration more than it usually did, and for the rest of the afternoon his thoughts had kept sporadically returning to her expression when she had looked at John as he bent over, her expression as she looked at Sherlock when she was on her way out of the door. It was troubling.

 

The problem was, there was no reason for him to be troubled by it. It was _Molly_ for god's sake! She was harmless, completely non-threatening. But, then again, she had been quite hot-tempered lately which, despite John's insistence that it was justified, was out of character. That was worrying, somewhat. Sherlock frowned to himself and recalled the events of her visit to the lab.

 

Her attention had been primarily on John, but she hadn't ignored Sherlock. When John had bent over, she'd outright stared at him. Conclusion; Molly was attracted to John.

 

She had deliberately knocked John's pen off the table, yet looked upset when it rolled on the floor, thus she had had some plan in mind for the action other than John picking the pen up for her. Possible conclusion; she was either trying to gain John's attention or work out if he was attracted to her in turn. Most likely the former, as Molly had never previously seemed concerned with confirming reciprocation of her feelings before launching in with invitations for 'dates' and such.

 

Thus; Molly's behaviour towards Sherlock of late was most likely due to the dissipation of her romantic notions towards him, and the subsequent personal annoyance for having acted so childishly about him. There, mystery solved. Good!

 

Except it didn't feel quite right. There was something missing.

 

Why John? He was so different to Sherlock in most ways, so what attributes did they have in common that had attracted Molly? Was it merely proximity? Could it be due to John's increased involvement in Sherlock's cases? Or had something happened between them that he had missed? Perhaps on the night of the shooting in the morgue, the same night that something had caused John to become so upset.

 

The taxi jerked forwards a few feet, then stopped abruptly as a Jeep tried to merge into the lane in front of it. Sherlock could just make out the driver; early twenties, living off his wealthy parents, on his way to acquire some form of stimulant. Sherlock scowled at him. The Dido CD ended and the driver earned Sherlock's eternal wrath for starting it playing again.

 

He sighed and leaned back in his seat. He was desperate to know what had gone on between John and Molly that night. Surely Molly wouldn't be so keen on John if they'd argued, and John wouldn't be so patient with Molly now if she'd actually offended him. So what was left?

 

A heart to heart? Unlikely, given the high John would have been experiencing in after saving Molly.

 

Comfort from John and stories of survival? Again, unlikely given John's state of mind and Molly's likely state of shock.

 

Physical contact was a possibility. Sherlock had heard that many people who had recently suffered a traumatic experience found significant comfort in being embraced or otherwise touched, and John would certainly have been willing to do such things. Sherlock had seen him sit holding patients' hands before now, or putting his arm around their shoulders as he spoke to them. He felt friendly towards Molly, so he would probably have gone further and hugged her. And of course there were plenty of studies demonstrating that close physical contact, especially during times of emotional stress, created strong feelings of empathy and trust between people.

 

So that was it, the most likely explanation. And a very satisfying explanation too. Molly had transferred her 'crush' from Sherlock to John, after a bonding ritual in the form of a hug or similar, and was trying to gain his attention, while sublimating her embarrassment over behaving foolishly around Sherlock into annoyance with him.

 

All points covered. Solved.

 

But _still_ , Sherlock felt like there was a gap, somewhere. A gap in his reasoning or in his knowledge he wasn't sure, but it was there. His consideration of a few days ago, regarding John's talent for introspection, resurfaced in his mind, and he wondered if such skills could be useful to him here. The taxi was now waiting at a traffic light junction where it seemed a minor collision had taken place, and the rain was still sluicing down the windows, so Sherlock stayed put and gave it a try.

 

Feelings. What were his _feelings_ on the matter? He'd never been good at those.

 

Something was troubling them though, agitating his mostly dormant emotions in a discomforting manner. What exactly was he worried about?

 

As he did when he wandered his mind palace, he tried to clear his mind, in order to allow his subconscious to make connections deep in his memories. He wasn't sure if this would work as well with an emotional question but, to his surprise, almost the moment that he managed to force his mind to quiet, a sharp, tense twitch of fright reared up inside him, almost startling him.

 

Was this what introspection was like? How could John stand it? It was so...woolly!

 

So what was that fear for? The answer came almost as quickly. It was for John. It was the fear of _losing_ John. But why? There was no good reason for him to fear such a thing. John had seen him at his best and worst and dealt with both admirably. He was content with their living arrangements and had made no suggestion that he was planning to leave. So where had this strange foreboding come from?

 

And then, all at once, it came to Sherlock in a flood.

 

It was all _Molly's_ fault!

 

Blast it! It really was her fault, even if she hadn't meant to do it. She looked to become John's girlfriend, as a considerable number of women had over the period of their acquaintance. John's girlfriends helped to calm John by satisfying sexual and social desires, thus Sherlock tolerated them, and he'd never had any real difficulty driving them away if they became too presumptive or too demanding of John's time. But Molly, she was a different matter. She already knew Sherlock, knew the nature of his and John's work, and she had a better idea of the importance of the relationship between John and himself. And she was a fellow doctor too, she even followed many of the same journals as John.

 

What if she became John's girlfriend and Sherlock _couldn't drive her away_?

 

It hardly bore thinking about. Sherlock's whole life would change, he would have to make room for somebody else! It had been easy enough to accept John as a feature in his own life, but that was mainly due to John's nature, his level-headed, adventurous... _John_ -ness. But Molly? Sherlock couldn't even imagine it. She just wouldn't fit.

 

He tried to calm himself with the assurance that she wouldn't live with them, that she would be elsewhere, separate, and John would go from their home to see her. That wouldn't be so awful, surely.

And yet the very thought of it filled him with dread.

 

Because John was _his_ , damn it all! Molly had no claim on him, none!

 

Sherlock groaned and rubbed his hands over his face, trying to will the sudden flash of anger to dissipate.

 

It wasn't right, though. John was the only person that Sherlock needed, the only one he trusted to join him in his work, the only one he could accept in his home. So why wasn't he the same to John? Why did John constantly insist on making these facile connections with other people, when surely Sherlock was enough to fill his life? And yet Sherlock couldn't even picture himself cutting John off from the rest of the world, even though he felt quite sure he could manage the feat.

 

It wouldn't be right. It would make John unhappy.

And that just wouldn't do.

 

A croaking cough shook him from his musings, and Sherlock looked up to see the taxi driver looking over his shoulder at him, annoyed. Why was _he_ annoyed? He wasn't the one who'd been forced to listen to Dido all the way home!

 

Ah, they were here. Home.

 

Sherlock paid and got out of the cab, and stood for several long minutes looking up at the front of 221. The lights in flat b were on, the curtains closed, and he fancied he could hear the radio playing inside. He smiled.

 

John was in.

He was home.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate Dido. I used to sort of like her, until my Dad became a fan and would play the same CD over and over at any opportunity. And this was while I was still living at home, so this was really a daily event, and I quickly got sick of it. So no offence to Dido fans, but I think there is a finite number of times you can hear Life For Rent without wanting to kill the person holding the remote for the stereo, so ration the amount of listening you do.
> 
> I also hate London traffic. My satnav once took me through central London during rush hour, when I'd asked it to take me to the M11 via Bromley (long story), and I, in my tiny Ford KA, got stuck in the midst of a load of SUVs driven by tiny middle aged women and agitated, barely adult lads, none of whom seemed to really understand how their steering wheels worked. Oh gosh that was a fun day.
> 
> Ooh, I'm in a hatey mood with this chapter, aren't I! Well, I love bats and chocolate brownies and my duvet, so that'll maybe balance it out.
> 
> Also, it sort of makes sense to me that if Sherlock ever does try to access his emotions, they would rush up and batter him about the head all in one go. Pow!


	10. John Sets Things Straight (in a manner of speaking)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Um...shall I make us some dinner?” John offered after a moment of awkward silence.
> 
> “John, I need to know where your loyalties lie,” Sherlock said firmly.
> 
> “My...my loyalties?"

Sherlock was a bit late getting back, but John didn't really mind. He knew that he was safe at the lab, working away on his bloody experiment, so he didn't need to worry about him. And the unexpected peace and quiet had given John a good opportunity to get a few jobs done. Currently the flat was about as clean as it ever got, he'd been to the gym, and he was three quarters of the way through a blog post that he'd been having trouble getting going with.

 

So all in all, by the time he heard Sherlock's characteristic crashing entrance through the front door, John was quite pleased with his afternoon.

 

This effect was lost when Sherlock slammed into the flat with a face like thunder.

 

“What's the matter?” John asked, putting his laptop to one side. “Are you okay?”

 

Sherlock waved off his enquiry with a frustrated gesture and stomped away into his bedroom. John could hear him bashing about a bit in there, then the wardrobe opening. He sighed.

 

A couple of minutes later, Sherlock emerged again, having taken off his coat, suit jacket, shoes and socks, and put his dressing gown on over his shirt. He swung into the centre of the room and came to rest, feet apart and arms folded, directly in front of John's chair, staring down at John with a look of alarming determination.

 

“Um...shall I make us some dinner?” John offered after a moment of awkward silence.

 

“John, I need to know where your loyalties lie,” Sherlock said firmly.

 

“My...my loyalties? What do you mean?”

 

Sherlock stared assessingly at him for a moment, studying his face the way he did when he thought somebody was trying to lie to him. Then he let out a long breath and allowed his arms to drop to his sides, something more than tension draining out of him.

 

“I mean, John, about your girlfriends.”

 

John frowned. “What about them? Which ones?”

 

“Future ones, John!” Sherlock cried, and strode off across the room, running his fingers into his hair in a gesture of frustration. “I want to know where your loyalties will be in the future.”

 

“Well...I'm sorry Sherlock, I don't know. I can't tell what's going to happen in the future, can I.” Sherlock threw him an annoyed look and slumped down into his own armchair. John decided to push his own irritation aside and lay it out a bit more plainly. “I think maybe you should try and make it clearer what you're asking me, because I'm confused.”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes in a show of impatience that John knew for a stalling method. Then his leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and stared John in the eye.

 

“If one of your girlfriends wants you to move in with her John, what will you do?”

 

So _that_ was what he was worried about! Okay, John thought, what was the best way to explain it to him?

 

“It depends on the girl, I suppose. And the strength of the relationship. If it were strong enough that, say, I wanted to get married, I'd consider it, Sherlock. Of course I would.”

 

Sherlock's face fell, and John felt mean, but reminded himself that he couldn't just blandly reassure Sherlock, not on something like this. He loved his friend but he wouldn't cave in just to comfort him.

 

“It's unlikely though,” he continued. “I don't seem to do that well with girlfriends, or at least not lately. And it would take a hell of a lot to make me leave here. I really do like living with you, Sherlock, even when you're driving me mad.”

 

Sherlock was staring at him curiously now, his expression mingling fear and confusion and hope. He hadn't heard what he'd wanted to hear, but neither had he heard what he'd dreaded, John supposed. He reached out one hand and leaned forward to touch Sherlock's elbow.

 

“You aren't my second choice or anything, you know. I want to be here, living with you. And if, someday, I decide I want to go and live with somebody else, because I want to marry them or whatever, then I will.” Sherlock flinched and John pinched his arm to keep him listening. “But even if I move out, Sherlock, it won't mean anything has to change with you and me. You're my best friend. I love being able to join in with you when you work, and I enjoy the time we spend together. If I live somewhere else, all it means is I'll have to make sure it's an easy tube ride away from Baker Street.”

 

Sherlock spoke, his voice unnervingly quiet; “You don't want to move away?”

 

“Not at this point, no.”

 

Sherlock stared at John's hand on his arm for a long, silent moment, then shrugged it gently away and got to his feet. Looking down at John, he opened his mouth as if to speak, then shut it again, gave an abrupt nod, and walked away, heading back to his room.

 

John listened to the door fall shut behind him, then slumped back in his chair with a sigh. What the hell had that been about? Sherlock had actually seemed worried, which was uncharacteristic at best and bloody frightening at worst.

 

Still, some part of John felt reassured by Sherlock's concern. It was easy to feel, at times, like he was alone in placing such importance on their friendship. But to see Sherlock so upset at the notion of losing John's presence in his life, it broke down John's occasional fears and left a part of him feeling calm.

 

But what had brought this on? He was fairly sure actually, and the thought made him frown. He would lay a bet that Molly's new tactic of trying to make Sherlock jealous by flirting with him had upset Sherlock. Maybe he actually thought that John and Molly were going out. In fact, given his silence on the subject of their tryst the night of the hospital shooting, he wondered if Sherlock had been worried about this matter from the first.

 

It wasn't like Molly to try and manipulate people like that, that's what bothered John as much as anything. But then again, the way Sherlock had treated her since he'd become aware of her crush on him, it sort of made sense that she could get away with a bit of revenge. John wondered if she realised, though, just how much confusion her actions were causing Sherlock. No, she couldn't know or she'd stop, he was certain. She had no malice in her. But she must have some other reason for doing it then, as he couldn't see her going to any lengths just to upset somebody. He sighed, and wondered if he should try and talk to her about it.

 

And then, what about him? The whole time he'd been talking to Sherlock, about girlfriends, about marriage, the thought had been whispering away in the back of his mind;

 

_If we were together, you wouldn't have to worry about this. You'd be sure of me._

 

His state of mind had actually become a bit clearer to him recently. He was certain now that his feelings for Sherlock went far beyond the normal parameters of friendship, that what he felt was very definitely love. A devoted love at that, as he couldn't, truly couldn't, envisage a situation that would change it. He was stuck like this.

 

Did he want to be _with_ Sherlock though, that was the sticking point. He'd never had a relationship with a man that had involved any more commitment than swapping phone numbers, or any more long-term relationship management than sneaking into one another's barracks for three nights in a row. His heart was all for it, and he knew he could deal with any flak he would get for being with a man. But what about sex?

 

Sex with men, at least in John's experience, had always been fairly utilitarian. He slept with men for release from stress, for alleviation from boredom, even to build trust among those he worked and lived with, all sound reasons in the context of a military post. And while he'd been friends with most of the men he slept with, romantic relationships and emotionally connected love-making had always been for women.

 

So without that previous context, would he even find another man sexually attractive enough to maintain a committed relationship?

 

As if in response to this train of thought, the door to Sherlock's room creaked open and the man himself emerged. He'd changed his clothes again, and now wore his pyjama bottoms and one of his seemingly infinite supply of clingy, thin t-shirts. The soft cotton of the clothes skimmed close to every curve of his body, showing off the long, lean lines of him to perfection, even down to the little seams John could make out on the tops of his thighs, where the legs of his underwear sat.

 

Yes, John thought. Yes he was attracted to Sherlock sufficiently to maintain a relationship. He really, _really_ was.

 

Sherlock dropped bonelessly down into his armchair again and looked around the room vaguely. John watched him, waited for him to speak, adored him.

 

“Did you say something about dinner, John?” Sherlock asked with drooping eyes.

 

“I did. Are you hungry?”

 

Sherlock nodded, his lower lip sticking out a bit, making him look like a big, lanky kid.

 

John smiled at him and got to his feet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So; John has sorted out his feelings but has managed to miss something quite important.  
> Molly knows what she wants but doesn't know how to get it, and is blithely unaware of the confusion she's causing.  
> And Sherlock is just totally lost.  
> Funsville!
> 
> I think Sherlock's pyjamas are much sexier than even the purple shirt of sex, so I put him in them to spark off John's revelation. I put him in them in Peach too, and they'll probably show up in my future stories as well, so I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.
> 
> BTW, thank you to everybody who has left me reviews/comments. I really appreciate you taking the time to let me know what you think. :)


	11. Molly Misses an Opportunity (but it turns out okay)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Every time she looked at him, little voice in her head kept pointing out to her 'bits of this man's body have been inside your body and it felt really good!' It was very distracting.

Court hearings always made Molly feel a bit jittery, like she was the one who was going to be judged. She'd managed to overcome her nerves enough though, today, to make a good job of it. She'd kept her answers clear and useful, she'd been able to put things into layman's terms for the jury without sounding condescending, and ultimately her evidence had helped to put away a murderer for life. All in all, a good day.

 

She never hung around the court afterwards of course, or not usually. This time though, she had a good reason to, and so she was standing in the big, echoing hall, watching the various legal staff, the journalists and what-have-you, milling about. She'd spotted a man she thought she recognised as a forensic scientist nearby, and that silver-haired police inspector as well, who had given her a very pleasant smile from across the hall.

 

The main reason she was waiting around, however, was for one John Watson. John had been asked to give evidence regarding what had happened as he'd chased the accused through a park, while the accused was running from the police. John had cornered her, rather cleverly, in a little yard, penned in with greenhouses, and thus had had the murderer trapped and considerably less energetic by the time the police turned up to officially arrest her. Sherlock had been in the lab having only just finished working out his evidence at that point, so he hadn't been called for the trial (an unusual decision, but then again, he did have a bit of a rubbish reputation for things like this) so he wasn't around at all.

 

Thus John was here, somewhere, on his own. And Molly was going to ask him out.

 

She was starting to wonder if he could have slipped out before she'd got to the hall, and was beginning to feel downhearted, when she spotted him making his way through the crowd towards the doors and, incidentally, her. _God_ he looked good in a suit! Molly reached out to tap his shoulder as he drew near to her, and he turned to her with a smile.

 

“Alright Molly, how are you?”

 

“I'm fine, thanks John!” she replied, and cringed inwardly at how stupidly perky her voice had sounded. “Um, how are you?”

 

“Fine, yeah. Nice job in court. You've got the better of your nerves now, I see.”

 

“Yeah, thanks,” Molly said, blushing. A few months ago she'd had the jitters so badly that she'd gone and thrown up while the court was adjourned, and Sherlock had deduced this and announced it in front of John when she returned from the bathroom. He was _such_ a dick. John seemed to have realised that he'd touched a nerve, and gave her a sympathetic smile.

 

“You did a really good job of it today, anyway. Nice and clear.”

 

“Thanks John, you too.” She took a deep breath, determined not to make a mess of it this time. She could feel that her face was still red, but hopefully John would blame it on the vomit blushing, rather than a new wave. Every time she looked at him, little voice in her head kept pointing out to her 'bits of this man's body have been inside your body and it felt _really_ good!' It was very distracting.

 

“Um, John, I wonder if-”

 

“Oi, Watson! Is the Freak about?” demanded a strident voice from close at hand.

 

 _Damn it!_ Molly thought. It was starting to feel like the whole bloody universe was against her.

 

That police sergeant that Sherlock was always arguing with was striding towards them, sure footed and graceful on her toweringly high heels. Molly felt a pang of jealousy; she'd never been able to balance on those things.

 

“What do you want him for?” John asked, and the sergeant pulled a face.

 

“ _I_ don't want him for anything. Lestrade says he needs to ask him about a cold case that happened last year. Thinks he might have taken a 'souvenir' from the evidence.”

 

John sighed, then started slightly. “Uh, Donovan, you know Molly, right? Molly Hooper, Sergeant Sally Donovan.” He gestured between them awkwardly, and they both nodded at one another. They'd met a couple of times, actually, but usually with Sherlock around, so they would both have been distracted for one reason or another. She'd never really talked with Donovan or anything.

 

John continued; “I'm not sure where he is, but if I get him on the phone, can we avoid another-” he was cut off by the chime of his phone in his jacket pocket, a bit of music that sounded like...was that Phantom of the Opera?

 

John glanced apologetically at her and Donovan before answering. “Hello Sherlock, I...yes I know, but...hang on.” He took the phone away from his ear and put his hand over the microphone. “I'm going to go and pass him to Greg now. 'Scuse me.”

 

He raised the phone back to his ear and headed off into the crowd, face tense, in the direction of the police inspector. And really Molly should have remembered that his name was Greg Lestrade, stupid of her to forget, but she'd only met him a couple of times and only during the period that she'd been...well, _mooning_ over Sherlock. She sighed, then became aware that Sergeant Donovan was looking at her quite closely. Oh god. Had she just stared after John in a lovelorn manner while in a crowded public place? Um...yes. Yes she had.

 

She turned and met Sergeant Donovan's eyes with trepidation.

 

“I thought you liked the Freak,” Donovan said, pulling no punches.

 

“Well, yes. I mean, I did, but not any more,” Molly replied, trying to sound like a woman of the world and, she was sure, failing.

 

Donovan cocked her head to one side. “Why? What did he do? And why Watson?” She turned and glanced at Watson who was now across the room, heads-together with Lestrade, listening to the phone. She didn't seem to find him particularly interesting to look at, which showed that at least some of Sherlock's criticisms about Lestrade's team's observation skills were accurate, Molly thought.

 

“Well, it's more that he didn't do... _any_ thing. And then John saved me the night that the hospital was robbed, you remember? Then he and I...um...” She groped for a way to finish that sentence that didn't imply frantic shagging, but after far _far_ too many seconds passed, she realised that her silence was sort of implying it anyway. At least it was if the wide eyed expression growing on Donovan's face was anything to go by.

 

“ _No_!” Donovan hissed in a stage whisper. “Seriously? With him?” She indicated John with a jerk of her head, and Molly couldn't help but glance in his direction. He now appeared to be holding in laughter, as Lestrade argued agitatedly with Sherlock over the phone.

 

“Yep,” Molly replied.

 

“Well,” Donovan sighed, folding her arms. “I never would have thought you'd be the type. Who'd have known you had it in you!”

 

There was a pause while they both considered the wording of that statement, then they simultaneously broke into giggles, pressing their hands over their mouths to shield their mirth from the thinning crowd in the hall.

 

“Well then,” Donovan began, shaking off her laughter. “Tell me; any good?”

 

Molly turned bright red. She should have been mortified, she really should, and she was for an instant. But only for an instant. Because, if she was honest, she'd always been a bit in awe of women like Sally Donovan. Since she was a teenager, all through uni, and now even as an adult, Molly had always been apart from those cool girls, the stylish ones, the confident, demanding ones. And now here she was, with one of them, talking about sex like a proper grown up. Maybe it was childish, but she actually felt...cool.

 

She managed a grin at Donovan, and a slightly too energetic nod, and Donovan's eyes widened further. “Really?” she asked. “God, always the bloody quiet ones.”

 

“I know,” Molly replied. “We were both a bit shaken up because of the shooting, so he told me I could consider it a one-off if I wanted to. But I don't want to, so I'm trying to get up the nerve to ask him out.” God it felt good to say that out loud, even if it was to the wrong person.

 

“Shit, did I interrupt you? Sorry,” Donovan said.

 

“No, no, you couldn't have known.”

 

“Wait; you said after the shooting...I thought they took you straight to the other hospital.”

 

“Um, well not _straight_ there...” Molly replied, blushing again.

 

Donovan's mouth fell open. “Did you shag Watson in your office or something?” she asked, sounding astonished and no small part impressed.

 

Molly shook her head. “No, there was this little courtyard in the garden and we, um...the wall...” she tailed off, but could tell by Donovan's expression that she got the gist of it.

 

“Against a wall? Seriously?”

 

“Um, yes. He's...well, he's stronger than he looks.”

 

Donovan's eyebrows were almost in her hair by now, and Molly was actually starting to feel some form of bond with her, which was a bit weird. Until recently all she'd known of the woman was that she hated Sherlock, which had classed her as an enemy. Lately though, she'd begun to accept that maybe whatever enmity they shared was justified.

 

“Well, I think I've underestimated you a bit, haven’t' I!” Donovan said, in a jokey way. Molly chuckled a bit and looked over at John again, only to see him and Lestrade setting off out of the building. Oh no, she'd missed him completely!

 

Donovan followed her gaze and frowned. “Damn, sorry,” she said.

 

“It's okay,” Molly sighed. “I'll get another chance soon, I'm sure. Don't you have to follow them?”

 

Donovan glanced at her watch and shook her head. “Nah, I'm off the clock, officially. Lestrade's off chasing up loose ends, I just followed him in case he needed somebody to give the Freak a smack in the mouth on his behalf.

 

“Has that ever happened?” Molly asked.

 

“No, no it hasn't,” Donovan sighed. “But I live in hope.”

 

They both glanced around suddenly, abruptly aware of the fact that they were now almost alone in the huge hall. Molly suddenly felt very awkward.

 

“Well,” Donovan said. “I can't be arsed sticking around here. You want to go get a coffee and bitch about the Freak a bit?”

 

“I'd love to,” Molly replied, and off she went to hang out with a cool girl.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm enjoying writing Molly so much! Can you tell?
> 
> I've always thought that Donovan wouldn't have gotten far in the police if she was that much of a bitch to people she just had personality clashes with, so I reckon that Sherlock did something quite serious and specific to deserve her ire and that she's actually not that bad when not around him. And damn it, there aren't that many non-criminal women in Sherlock, so it sort of makes sense that these two might gravitate to each other for hanging out and bitching purposes! Yes! That's what I think!


	12. Sherlock Gets a Shock (and reacts as well as you'd expect)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Donovan was still standing behind him. He could see her reflection in the window and she was smiling unpleasantly. Oh for heaven's sake, she thought she had something on him. This should be good.

Lestrade had been so tedious about the knife that Sherlock couldn't believe he'd had the nerve to ask for help. Of _course_ Sherlock had taken the knife from the crime scene, it was only natural that he'd find such an unusual blade fascinating. But then Lestrade had started nagging at him, first on the phone and later in person, to return it to the police, and had even had the bloody gall to get John on his side. And he'd called it a souvenir! A souvenir! Sherlock Holmes did not keep souvenirs, he kept evidence and items of unusual and extraordinary interest.

 

But Lestrade had taken the knife back (John had, at least, bargained that Sherlock would be allowed to keep the cast he had made of it), and now, today, he had called Sherlock into his office to ask for help in an embezzlement case. Embezzlement! The most dull and bureaucratic of crimes!

 

Sherlock saw through it in an instant of course, and was sitting in that damnably uncomfortable chair in Lestrade's office, waiting for him to make phone calls and other boring nonsense, when Donovan knocked on the door and rudely entered without waiting for a reply. Sherlock added that to his mental check list of reasons why she wasn't any good.

 

“Sir, there's a witness here to see you about the Bantry case. She's pretty agitated, says she remembered something about the house. Can you see her any time soon?”

 

Lestrade stopped in the middle of dialling the phone and swept his gaze dispiritedly over the paperwork on his desk, before raising his head to reply to her. “Yeah, I suppose I'll have to. No reason while this can't wait a while. Sherlock, you stay here. And don't poke around!”

 

With that, he got up and left the room. Sherlock sniffed disdainfully at the mess of boring paperwork on the desk, and wondered if Lestrade had acquired anything new since the last time he'd been left to poke around in his office. Barely had this thought crossed his mind, when he realised with a start that Donovan was still standing behind him. He could see her reflection in the window and she was smiling unpleasantly. Oh for heaven's sake, she thought she had something on him. This should be good.

 

“What is it Donovan?” Sherlock asked with a sigh. He kicked his feet up onto the desk and tipped his head back far enough so that he could see her. “Want to know what and with whom Anderson is up to, do you?”

 

She scowled at him, nerve well and truly touched, and walked forwards to perch on the edge of the desk. She looked him over and, with a twitch of her lips, the smile was back.

 

“I just wondered how you were feeling about it,” she asked in tones of fake sympathy. “You know, the whole business with... _them_.”

 

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. Was this some sort of attempt at digging information out of him? “I don't know who you're talking about, but whomever it is I hope you'll hurry up and tell me, because it sounds _so_ very interesting.”

 

Donovan schooled her face to an expression of wide-eyed innocence and said, in gentle tones, “I only wanted to know if you were upset about having to lose some of your precious _John_ time.”

 

“What?” Sherlock demanded.

 

Donovan's smirk returned. “Well, I know how fond you are of your little side-kick. It must be a blow to find out somebody else is going to be getting his best efforts from now on, eh?”

 

Sherlock felt, for an instant, that if she'd been any nearer to him, he would have bitten her. “I don't think you quite understand what you're talking about, as usual,” he said, trying to maintain his cool.

 

“Oh I know all too well,” Donovan replied. “I heard it straight from the horse's mouth. Of course, that's just a turn of phrase. It wouldn't do to call her a horse, she's a lovely girl. Pretty, intelligent, sweet, and a lot better company than you.”

 

“ _Much_ better company than me,” Sherlock corrected, and he could have kicked himself because now Donovan looked delighted.

 

“Glad you admit it. Anyway, looks like he's going to have his hands full soon. Too full to go running around, picking up after you.”

 

Sherlock felt his teeth gritting together and had to force his jaw to relax. “Donovan, you really don't know John very well at all, do you,” he said, but even as the words left his mouth, he knew it was weak. Damn it all, she actually had him off balance!

 

“I think I know a good bit more than you do, actually. I think he'll be very happy with Molly. Two doctors together, discussing dissection and what have you. And I hear he's a good lay, as well.”

 

Who the hell had she badgered _that_ information out of, Sherlock wondered. “He and Molly aren't an item, Donovan. You're misinformed.”

 

She raised her eyebrows. “Am I? Well, I happen to think it's more a case that I've been _pre_ -informed. Molly told me herself that she's going to ask him out, and I can't see any reason why he'd say no. Can you?”

 

Shit. Shit! _Shit!_ He couldn't think of a single one, that was the bloody trouble. That was what he'd been agonising over for what felt like months now, but he couldn't see a way out of it. And now he knew for certain that Molly was going to pursue John, Donovan hadn't been lying about that, he knew all her tells.

 

“It'll do him good,” Donovan continued, obviously enjoying herself immensely. “Get him away from you a bit, spend some time around somebody who can actually make him happy. You never know, she might be 'the one'. In a year or two's time, you could be Uncle Sherlock. Isn't that a horrible thought? And, you know-”

 

Before she could say any more, Sherlock shot out of his chair and left the office, slamming the door behind him. A few faces turned in his direction as he left the little room, but he ignored them and strode away through the rat-run of cubicles and desks. His arms felt jittery and restless, possibly because they wanted to strangle Donovan, possibly due to levels of emotional anxiety not previously experienced. His thoughts were a hopeless jumble of suppositions and possibilities, odds and ends of emotional responses flitting annoyingly amongst them. The noise from the open plan room wasn't helping, and Sherlock racked his brains for the layout plan for this floor of the building, then veered off towards a door near the emergency stairs. It was a small room containing a desk and a few broken swivel chairs, unused since the old photocopier and fax machines had been exchanged for smaller, newer models and moved out to the main office. He gave one of the chairs a shove to determine if it would take his weight and, satisfied that it would, he sat down.

 

 _Shit_.

 

Donovan probably didn't even realise just how badly her little game of annoyance had affected him, which in itself was galling. But it had been like she'd summarised all his concerns of the last couple of weeks and then casually confirmed them as the most likely outcome of events. They couldn't be!

 

Could they?

 

John couldn't leave him for Molly, he just couldn't. He loved working with Sherlock, and living with him, he'd said so only the other night!

 

He'd said so in the same conversation that he'd said he would move out if he wanted to get married. And he didn't seem to understand that that was still _leaving_. That if Sherlock couldn't have him in his home with him, it would be as bad as not having him at all, no matter how often they saw each other. John had somehow, by some sort of capillary action, crept into every aspect of Sherlock's life, and to remove him would be _damaging_! Like tearing out a tumour without cutting off its blood supply.

 

What if he married Molly? What if he went and had kids, crying and taking up his hours, until Sherlock just became one little point down at the bottom of one of his wretched 'to do' lists?

 

Sherlock couldn't bear it.

 

At that moment, the door opened and Lestrade stepped into room. He stared about vaguely for a moment, having probably forgotten that the little room still existed, then look directly at Sherlock.

 

“What are you doing in here?” he asked. “Everybody says that you shot out of my office like a bloody cannonball and came storming in here. Did Donovan put the wind up you?”

 

“Shut up. Thinking.”

 

“Because if she did, I might have to send off for her to get a bonus.”

 

Sherlock stared determinedly at the little wicker bin in the corner.

 

“Seriously, what's wrong?” Lestrade asked, mother henning it. “Is it something about a case? No? Something to do with your brother? Mrs Hudson? John?”

 

Sherlock flinched and Lestrade let out a gratified sounding grunt. “Alright, so it's John. What's happened to him? Is he okay?”

 

Sherlock once more willed his jaw to unclench. John wasn't okay. He was likely to soon be faced with a decision that could affect the rest of his life, and if Sherlock was any judge, he'd probably make a cock up of it.

 

“He's in danger,” he blurted. “I don't know how to stop it.”

 

“Jesus! Well...what can I do?”

 

“Nothing,” Sherlock said with a grimace. “This isn't the sort of thing the law can help with. I've got to deal with this myself.”

 

Fuelled with a sudden flush of determination, he rose to his feet, tugged his coat around him, and swept out of the little room, out of the open plan office, and into the lift, ignoring Lestrade's shouts all the way.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're getting to the bit now where it kicks off. I hope you're enjoying it :)
> 
> Not much to note about this chapter, though I named the Bantry case after some recurring characters in Agatha Christie's Miss Marple stories, Colonel and Mrs (Dolly) Bantry, who were major characters and potential suspects in The Body in the Library, one of my favourite Christie stories.
> 
> I'm sleepy now because I had to go off at 6.30 this morning to get to a meeting in Wales, which is a whole other country and no laughing matter when you're meeting with people who have no interest in agreeing with one another and expect you to do something about it. I'm going to go and lie in the bath and read Modesty Blaise comics. Goodnight :)
> 
> *edit* Oh my God, have you seen the photos of the Cumberbatch filming the new series of Sherlock with a shaved head? I predicted he'd be bald! Look in the notes of Little Green Anorak! I dreamed about it! I am the Child of Prophecy! Mwahaha!  
> ...I'm going to bed.


	13. John Drops the Ball (and a bombshell)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “You can't see Molly again.”
> 
> John had to pause a moment and be sure he'd heard right. “What?”

John had just got out of the supermarket when his phone rang. Being that he'd managed to survive the shopping trip without any technological failures he should have been in a good mood, but for various reasons he felt tense and uncomfortable. Thus, when he answered his phone, his greeting came out a little sharper than he'd intended.

 

“H'llo”

 

“John? Are you alright? It's me, Greg.” He sounded really worried, which caused John's hackles to rise.

 

“I'm fine, Greg. Why wouldn't I be? Has something happened to Sherlock?”

 

He heard Greg sigh out a deep breath and could picture him rubbing his temples. “No, it's just...maybe I misunderstood.”

 

“Misunderstood what?”

 

“Sherlock was here a while ago, about that knife.”

 

“Right,” John responded, recalling keenly the argument they'd had over the phone the day before.

 

“Well, I left him in my office for a bit, and when I went back he'd disappeared into one of the store rooms and was...I dunno, contemplating something. He looked all wound up.”

 

“Has he been working on something?” John asked, frowning. No cases at the moment, he was sure of it.

 

“I've no idea, he said not. Which, bad sign, I know. But then he said he was worried about _you_. That you were in some kind of danger, but not the sort of thing that concerned the police. Wait...no, he said not the sort of danger that the law could help with. That's his exact words, I think. What does he mean?”

 

Greg sounded genuinely worried and not a little bewildered, and really, John would have told him everything, if he were able to. However, he didn't have the faintest idea what Sherlock had meant, and he told Greg so in apologetic tones.

 

“I wonder if he's worked out that somebody's going to do something to you,” Greg offered reassuringly.

 

“I don't know. It's possible, but I think he'd have at least texted me if he thought I were in danger. He usually thinks to do it if it's something that gets him that wound up.”

 

“You want me to send a couple of officers over to Baker Street? They might come in handy, just in case.”

 

John shook his head, an old habit that stuck even though he knew Greg couldn't see him. “I'm sure we'll be fine, but thanks. I'm nearly at the front door now, so I'll stay put until he gets back, then see if I can grill him.”

 

Greg chuckled faintly. “Better you than me, mate. Call me if you need anything, alright? Or if anything weird happens. Don't suppose you happen to have a purely self-defensive, questionably acquired firearm about your residence?”

 

“Me officer? Why, no officer!” John replied, managing a grin, and Greg said goodbye with another dry laugh and hung up.

 

What the bloody hell was this going to be about? Last time Sherlock had been worried about John's life being in danger, he'd caused a huge panic for most of the staff of the surgery, only to reveal that Mrs Hudson had done a load of laundry for them (after Sherlock had broken their washer) using biological detergent, and Sherlock hadn't realised that John's allergy was only mild. While it was nice to get an explanation for the annoying itchy sensations across his back, John was not amused by the chaos Sherlock had caused by turning up in the mid-morning busy period, shouting and ranting about anaphylactic shock and imminent death.

 

He went up to their flat and began putting the shopping away. Mrs Hudson was on the phone to her sister; he could tell by the repeated refrains of 'I know! I _know_!' drifting up through the floor boards. He was just about finished with the groceries when he heard the front door open and Sherlock's footsteps hurrying up the stairs. John steeled himself and went out into the living room, standing right in the middle of the floor to limit the possibility of Sherlock not noticing he was there.

 

He needn't have worried about that, however, as Sherlock, dishevelled and out of breath, burst into the room and made straight for him.

 

“John! John you must promise me!”

 

“Promise you what? And what have you been telling Greg? You know, he was really worr-”

 

“Just promise you'll do one thing for me. Say you'll promise and then I'll explain.”

 

John frowned. Then he pulled himself up to his fullest height, folded his arms across his chest and stared Sherlock dead in the eye. Sherlock gave a start.

 

“John, this is no time to be-”

 

“No Sherlock, it is. You want me to promise you something – and you know how seriously I take that – without having the faintest idea what it is? No, I'm sorry, but it's going to have to be explanations first.”

 

“But I _can't_ explain it yet, because-”

 

“Because you know I'm not going to like it,” John said evenly, and Sherlock's jaw snapped shut. An expression of near-toddler-like frustration and annoyance crossed his face, then seemed to be pushed away by force of will.

 

“Alright,” he said, and his eyes broke contact with John's to glance agitatedly around the room. “You can't see Molly again.”

 

John had to pause a moment and be sure he'd heard right. “What?”

 

“You. Cannot. See. Molly Hooper. Again. Ever!” Sherlock enunciated, his cheeks turning pink as he spoke.

 

Oh Christ, he'd finally worked it out. John sighed; he should have known it would only be a matter of time. He was surprised it had taken him as long as it had.

 

“Sherlock, is this what that talk the other night was about? Do you think I'm going to leave you for Molly?”

 

Sherlock made a moue and fixed his gaze pettishly at something behind and above John's head.

 

John grimaced. “Look, I'm fond of Molly,” he said, noticing Sherlock flinch again. “But that doesn't mean we're in love or anything. She's not really the type of person I want to be with. And just because we had sex in a...well, in a tense moment, it doesn't...” His words trickled to a stop as Sherlock's eyes suddenly fixed back on him. Sherlock's face was paper white, his eyes wide and bewildered, his jaw hanging.

 

Oh god, he hadn't worked it out after all.

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Your hair!” Sherlock cried, pointing an accusing finger at John.

 

“What?” John asked, raising one hand self-consciously to his head.

 

“On the night of the shooting, I could tell from your hair that you'd been sweating, but there was no good reason for it. But it was because you'd been...”

 

Apparently unable to force the words out, Sherlock turned and took a determined step towards his bedroom. John wasn't having that though, and he reached out to grab Sherlock's shoulder and force him to turn back around.

 

“Sherlock, what exactly did you think was happening between me and Molly? He asked, struggling to keep his voice even.

 

Sherlock stared at him, twisting his lips together, for some moments. Then, with the rapidity that usually only came out during deductions, he began to speak.

 

“She was planning to ask you out. She's been flirting aggressively with you for weeks, and she finally had plans to make her move. But Molly isn't socially confident, so why would she suddenly decide to pursue somebody in whom she has previously shown no interest? I thought at first that you had bonded while comforting her over the matter of the shooting, but I see now that it was something more than _comfort_! - that you offered her.”

 

Only the word 'comfort' was shouted, but that was bellowed out like a gunshot, and made John take a reflexive step back.

 

“She wants you to herself, John. Surely even you can see that! I demand that you see no more of her! Now, it'll be tricky, but by planning carefully when we work in the morgue, we-”

 

“No,” John interrupted, gritting his teeth. “That won't do, Sherlock. I'm not just going to do what I'm told like I'm your fucking pet!”

 

Sherlock looked startled for a second, then scowled, but John continued before he could begin to speak again.

 

“I'm a grown man and I can do what the bloody hell I want to. And that includes seeing who I want, sleeping with who I want, and, yes, even going and _living_ with who I want! Do you understand that Sherlock? Because if you can't get your vast and glorious brain around that simple concept, then maybe you aren't the man I thought you were!”

 

“Don't leave!” Sherlock said immediately, desperately, and the weakness in his voice sucked all the air out of John's sails. He looked...he actually looked confused.

 

“John, I don't want...I don't understand!”

 

“How can you not?!” John cried, then realised that that was a stupid thing to have said. Anger and indignation were still boiling away inside him, but he could see now the state that Sherlock was in. There were shadows underneath his eyes and an unusual pallor to his face. God, he must have been really worrying about this. John rubbed his hands over his face, feeling suddenly weary.

 

“You know what, Sherlock? I can't deal with this. Not now. So what we'll do is, I will go for a walk and then I will come home and go to bed. And tomorrow, when I've calmed down, and we've both had a chance to think things through, we can have a talk about this and see what's going to happen. Alright?”

 

Sherlock looked mutinous, but nodded anyway, and slouched off into his bedroom. John pulled his jacket off the hook and left, a bit too quickly to be entirely good, out the front door and off down the street with his hands shoved into his pockets.

 

He felt awful. Not because he'd shouted at Sherlock, or even because he'd shaken him up so badly, but because some part of him was delighted at how terrified Sherlock was of losing him. And what did it say about what a mess John Hamish Watson was that he still doted on the bastard? It had flickered, briefly and almost unnoticeably, into his mind during their conversation, that Sherlock might be upset because he wanted John to himself. And even with all the grief and aggravation that Sherlock had given him, he had been sorely disappointed when it didn't turn out that way.

 

Feeling like a tool, he walked round and round the park for an hour or so, cooling off. Then, feeling he should eat despite not being hungry, he went and bought a sandwich and ate it on a bench, as dusk fell around him. When he finally returned, the flat was dark and the door to Sherlock's room was closed. John could have opened that door and gone through. He was tempted to do so. But, if Sherlock was inside, he had no idea what he would say to him, and was rather afraid that he'd end up saying far too much.

 

He went upstairs and got ready for bed, expecting bad dreams.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I was expecting this to be a fun, silly story. I don't know how it turned out like this, except that it has a mind of its own!
> 
> A couple of people have pointed out that people in the UK can't own firearms. I know this, partly because I'm English and also because I grew up in the country where many farmers own guns. Firearms licenses for private citizens are rare, but not unheard of, especially in the case of people who have livestock that they may need to protect. It's kind of an unwritten rule that, if you know the right people and can come up with a good reason, you can get a license. John and Sherlock know Mycroft. That's a good enough explanation for me of why John still has a gun. Just in case it was bothering anyone.
> 
> Pip pip, cheerio!


	14. Molly Kicks a Little Ass (and, naturally, regrets it)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Well...why did you come rushing in here if...” Oh no. He wasn't was he?
> 
> “Molly, I'm here to talk to you about your intentions towards John.”
> 
> He was.

Molly rearranged the sheaf of papers on her desk for the third time and stared blankly at them once more.

 

“They're really interesting, sort of post-punk with a bit of Jive Bunny, you know?” Rajiv was saying behind her, and she nodded without really listening.

 

She'd had a nice time with Donovan the other day, but now she was a little worried. She'd told the other woman so much, and it had felt good at the time, like a weight had been lifted off her. But now, she was worried.

 

“But, like, not _really_ glam rock, just sort of _inspired_ by glam rock. But, like, _really_ inspired, you know?” Rajiv continued, and Molly nodded again.

 

Because Donovan truly disliked Sherlock, and probably wouldn't think twice about doing something she knew would upset him, like telling him that Molly was going to go out with John. She'd probably tease him about it. She decided that she ought to talk to John sooner rather than later, but how? She'd not yet managed to arrange to meet with him, but she might have to. She didn't really want to ask him out over the phone, not very romantic. Maybe she could go to Baker Street...no, that would be too forward. Wouldn't it?

 

“But anyway, they're having this concert on Friday and I thought...Molly?”

 

“What? Oh, I'm sorry, Rajiv. I'm not really very with it today.”

 

“S'okay,” Rajiv said easily. “I was just saying-”

 

He was cut off by a crash as the door to the office was flung open. Molly turned and, before she had really even registered who was standing there, she felt herself starting to frown.

 

“Sherlock, what are you doing here?” she asked, managing to keep her voice cool.

 

Sherlock opened his mouth to answer, then closed it with a snap and turned to look at Rajiv as if he'd only just realised there was a third person in the room. His keen eyes raked up and down Rajiv's body with the quick incisiveness that Molly had seen a hundred times before.

 

“Hey, look-” Rajiv began, but Sherlock interrupted him at volume.

 

“You think constantly that you can do better than your current job, but are unwilling to put in the effort required to achieve this” he announced in a rush. “You are unsatisfied with your personal life because you have a reputation as a player but you'd rather settle down with somebody and produce children. You are currently undergoing treatment for both athlete's foot and pubic lice, and you did something you're _very_ embarrassed about two days ago. Would you like me to go into detail?”

 

“N-no,” Rajiv squeaked.

 

“Then go away,” Sherlock commanded, and reached behind himself to pull the door back open. Rajiv gave Molly a quick, nervous glance, before darting out the door as fast as his legs could carry him.

 

Assume the best, she told herself, getting to her feet. Usually he did this for a reason.

 

“What's the case?” she asked. “When did it come in? If it was the other shift, I’ll have to-”

 

“What? What case?” Sherlock interrupted, and Molly, who was gathering up her papers, paused to stare at him.

 

“Well...why did you come rushing in here if...” Oh no. He wasn't was he?

 

“Molly, I'm here to talk to you about your intentions towards John.”

 

He was. “Sherlock, you don't-”

 

He jerked his arm up and held aloft an imperious hand and, to her shame, Molly stopped talking.

 

“Molly, I have the...utmost regard for you as a pathologist, but I don't believe any good can come of you pursuing John. I don't want you to see him any more.”

 

He pulled himself up and gave her a look that she'd seen many times before. It was the look that said 'hurry up and agree with me, I've better things to be doing'. Molly had always caved to that look before, but not this time.

 

“ _Fuck_ you, Sherlock,” she said. Sherlock looked surprised, which she couldn't blame him for. She wasn't sweary usually. “I'm not going to let you tell me what to do, not in a situation like this. It's up to me if I ask John out, and if he accepts then that's up to him. But you don't get a say in it, do you understand?” Her voice got louder and louder as she spoke, and when she stopped, the silence seemed to ring in her ears.

 

Sherlock stared at her, his eyes like pale lasers, for what felt like a year. He was waiting for her to crumble. She clenched her fists and scrunched up her brows and decided he'd have to wait a long bloody time.

 

“No,” he said finally. “No, I'm not having that. Molly, you simply must be made to understand-”

 

Molly snapped. “ _You're_ going to have to understand that you don't get to tell me what to do! Not about my own damn life, and _certainly_ not in my own damn morgue! Now go away!”

 

Sherlock narrowed his eyes dangerously at her, but she ignored it and swung her arm out to point at the door. She didn't trust herself to say anything else, she'd probably turn the air blue if she opened her mouth. Very slowly, Sherlock turned, smoothed his coat over his hips, and walked out of the office. He heard his deliberate footsteps ringing out on the tiles in the corridor. Then the door swooshed, and he was gone.

 

Molly sank back into her chair and felt all the air whoosh out of her.

 

She felt...she felt a smile twitching in the corners of her mouth. She hadn't just told Sherlock off, or shocked him into silence this time. No, she'd actually won an argument! She felt _proud_!

 

But...oh god. It just occurred to her; there was no way in hell he was going to hold back now. Never mind telling John about when she threw up after that court hearing, Sherlock knew all sorts of embarrassing things that had happened to her! He was probably on his way to tell John now!

 

 _Calm down_ , she told herself. John's a reasonable man, and he knows that you can be a bit...daft. It's all okay.

 

But that didn't mean she wanted him to know about it!

 

Oh no, Sherlock might tell him about when the ferrets chased her.

 

Or when that old lady got locked in the lift and Molly split her trousers trying to help her out!

 

Or the time that trolley escaped down the hill! Oh god, not that one!

 

She'd have to get in touch, she decided. She'd have to get to John before Sherlock did.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Poor Molly, I am putting her through the wringer, aren't I. This is getting steadily closer to it's climax now, though there are a few more chapters to go. 
> 
> In other news, rejoice! For I have begun planning out the plot for the sequel to The Adventure of the Consulting Woman! It won't be around for a while yet, as I've some other pieces I want to work on first, but it's going to contain Kirsty, her boyfriend Graham, a dash of Mycroft, a soupçon of Lestrade and a number of shifty underworld types. Oh, and it'll be John in disguise this time, though not as a woman. Also, please try to bear in mind that I'm a huge TEASE!
> 
> Luvs!  
> DG


	15. Sherlock Gets Introspective (and fails to take a hint)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Look at all John got from Sherlock: intellectual stimulation; companionship; adventure; the opportunity to meet people and go to places he would never have had access to otherwise. Sherlock took him to restaurants he'd never heard of and on trips he wouldn't have been able to afford by himself. He taught him so much about his science and learned so much from John about medicine and the military and Afghanistan and – God! - people! Everything!
> 
> So what was missing from their relationship?

Sherlock was still fuming when he emerged from the hospital. The day was of the bright, crisp, sunny variety, which at that particular moment felt like the weather was having a laugh at his expense. He couldn't shake off this profound feeling of anger and frustration and, to make it worse, there was some niggling little node in the back of his brain that kept insisting it wasn't Molly's fault.

 

Of course it was her fault! She was the one who'd started all this, this... _angst_! She was the one who'd gone off with John on the night of the shooting and had sex with him with her vagina. All her fault! She was the one who'd tried to flirt with him and ask him out. Again, all her fault! So now, it was because of her that Sherlock had had to take a stand and John had become cross with him. All Molly Hooper's fault!

 

Sherlock hadn't even realised he had started walking until he was turning a corner, taking himself away from Bart's and in the direction of the park. It felt like perhaps John had rubbed some of his habits off onto Sherlock; a walk to dissipate anger. Already he could feel it beginning to ebb away. His thoughts were tidying themselves up a bit.

 

Alright, perhaps he _could_ have handled last night's discussion with John better. He knew by this point in their friendship that John disliked being told what to do, so he should have expected the outburst. But of course, Sherlock had been out of sorts due to worry, and then he'd had a shock during their conversation, and his usual knack for leading John to his conclusions had failed him. So; perhaps that part wasn't Molly's fault, or at least not directly.

 

The real question was, why had this rattled Sherlock so much? John had become a significant part of his life, this was true enough. But why this terrible shock of fear at the thought of him leaving?

 

Sherlock almost walked into a teenage couple snogging on the pavement and gave them a good hard glare. They remained oblivious.

 

If he examined the idea, it wasn't really John leaving that bothered him, or not specifically at least. It was more that John might leave him for another person. That he mind find a _replacement_ for Sherlock. Having come to enjoy John's attention and admiration over the time they'd been living together, it made Sherlock feel sourly aggravated at the idea that somebody else would receive that same attention instead of himself. He even felt, it occurred to him, that _sharing_ John's attention with another person would be unpleasant. John's quiet devotion to him, and his own reaction to it, had to mean something, surely. This couldn't be a characteristic of an ordinary friendship, he was certain. But then, _what_ did it mean?

 

An elderly couple walked down the street in the opposite direction holding hands. Sherlock didn't notice them in time to step around them, so they let go of one another's hands to allow him to pass between them, then joined up again behind him, chuckling to themselves. Why he noticed their activities Sherlock wasn't sure, but it was annoying sometimes, the things his brain chose to pick up on.

 

He shook off his awareness of the couple and returned to his dilemma. It was true that his relationship with John was the most stable and rewarding of his life to date. He had never made personal connections easily and, once made, found them tiresome and difficult to maintain. In most cases, he would lose interest in people so quickly that any sort of friendship was over almost as soon as it had begun. But John, for some reason, had been the exception to this. Dull, undemanding Doctor Watson had somehow, over the course of a few hours, become fascinating, unpredictable John, and Sherlock had been astounded at how quickly their bond had grown, and at how John had managed to maintain his interest. But there was more to it then that, he was sure. Something about John had drawn him, something more than the potential promise of companionship and aid. What could it have been?

 

Sherlock raised his eyes as he crossed the street and, to his left, a large poster taking up most of a shop window caught his eye; a male model, mostly nude, ostensibly advertising clothing. His eyes ran over the man's skin and, with a mental shrug of indifference, he looked away.

 

The trouble with his feelings about John lay in the fact that Sherlock had never had so close a friend before, and so didn't know what constituted a normal level of attachment to feel. Certainly he wanted John to stay with him, living with him if possible. And he wanted as much of John's attention as he could get. John's girlfriends had never really bothered him, which seemed quite natural for a friendship...but there, again, was that annoying little niggle about Molly. She was too...close, somehow. Too involved. But she wasn't rationally a threat to their friendship, so why did Sherlock feel so antagonistic towards her now? Why was it so hurtful to think of John going out with her?

 

As he passed the door to a coffee shop, a young woman walked out looking at her phone and almost bumped into him. When he glanced up, he saw through the window the shop assistant gazing longingly at her. Hopeless case, as she was clearly a lesbian and in a relationship, as Sherlock could tell from her nail polish and the hems of her jeans. He stepped briskly around her and kept moving.

 

With a sudden jolt of inspiration, Sherlock realised the root of his problem, or at least one of them; he felt like there was something missing. That was what it came down to, really. There was something missing between himself and John, some gap that John kept trying to fill with his parade of boring girlfriends. It seemed like, as much as Sherlock got his optimum quota of social input from John, John did not get the same from Sherlock. That was it! That was why Molly was a problem! If she had been found to have whatever qualities it was that John wanted, she could have taken Sherlock's place in his esteem.

 

All Sherlock had to do now was work out where this gap lay. What was missing? John got certain things from his girlfriends, things that he didn't get from Sherlock but could, potentially, get from Molly. But where was that blasted gap? Look at all John got from Sherlock: intellectual stimulation; companionship; adventure; the opportunity to meet people and go to places he would never have had access to otherwise. Sherlock took him to restaurants he'd never heard of and on trips he wouldn't have been able to afford by himself. He taught him so much about his science and learned so much from John about medicine and the military and Afghanistan and – God! - people! Everything!

 

So what was missing from their relationship?

 

As he walked past the low fence that separated the footpath from the park lawn, Sherlock heard a little snuffing noise and turned his head to see two dogs, a Jack Russell and a Borzoi, somehow managing to have sex. He turned away and kept his gaze fixed firmly on the path in front of him as he walked past them. Blasted distractions, he'd almost had it!

 

John had never had any difficulty obtaining casual sex when he felt like it, and he often strenuously denied being attracted to men, so it couldn't be that he wanted physical gratification of that sort from Sherlock. And really, Sherlock wouldn't want to be John's occasional bed companion either. So what did that leave?

 

Unable to quite drum his thoughts into order, Sherlock wandered the streets for some time. He circuited the park, (relieved to see, when he passed the spot again, that the Borzoi and her lover had moved on) then set off into the streets nearby, briefly consulting his mental map to ensure that he wasn't going anywhere that he was likely to meet Yarders, Bart's staff or anybody else who he didn't need to be bothering with.

 

All the time he was walking, his mind kept up a rhythm of 'what-is-missing, what-is-missing, what-is-missing' that beat in syncopation with the rap of his feet on the pavement. Above this beat, his thoughts drifted, toying with this idea and that idea, but never settling on any one notion for long.

 

Then Sherlock raised his eyes, and all of a sudden, it came to him.

 

He was standing outside a small cinema in a quiet side street, with old-fashioned glass swing doors and a plain awning above. Just inside the doors, quite visible to passers-by, was a free-standing poster display, upon which hung a poster for some film. Sherlock didn't take in the title or the names of the performers. His eyes were on the two figures grappling in the centre of the image. One gripped the other by the hair, bending them backwards, while their free hand held a knife above the others' vulnerable belly. The attacker's face was contorted and reddened, and the victim's mouth was open in a cry, their face otherwise expressionless with shock.

 

That was it! That was the thing that was missing, the _feeling_ he'd been trying to pin down! That was what he wanted from John, and had wanted all along! That was what John sought in his unsuitable women! That was what he'd been afraid of losing to the likes of Molly!

 

_Passion_!

 

Not this fleeting passion of rage, like the image depicted, nor of plain and passing lust. What was missing was _desire_. Even now he could feel the name of the churning feeling inside him clicking into place; desire, desire for John Watson. That bright flame of energetic, pro-active want that kept demanding he claim John as his own, he was finally fully aware of it after all these weeks of confusion and upset. It was desire!

 

Desire for his friendship. Desire for his companionship. Desire for his happiness and his loyalty and his trust. Yes, all of these Sherlock wanted, needed.

 

Desire...for him? For John?

 

Sherlock had never been good at feelings.

 

There was a bar just a few doors down from the cinema. He slipped inside and ordered a glass of whiskey.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So Sherlock's finally getting the picture. Now he's just got to avoid cocking it up, and...well, maybe he'll just have to settle for not cocking it up too much. 
> 
> I know this chapter's fairly short. I was going to post two at once, but I had a nasty migraine earlier this week and couldn't bear to look at the screen. There'll be two next week, promise :)


	16. John Braces Himself (for all the good it will do)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John took his mug of tea up to his room and set about changing his clothes. He might as well be comfy when he got his heart broken.

Sherlock had still been asleep when John had left for work that morning, which was something of a relief. Too often his flatmate had worked him into such an ire before he'd even eaten breakfast, that he ended up twitchy and out of sorts all day. In fact, he was getting a reputation at the surgery as something of a grump because of it. Whether Sherlock had found some excuse to try and sabotage John's work, or whether it was just coincidence, John couldn't say, but he wouldn't have put it past Sherlock to be doing an experiment on him again.

 

No, he decided, that was unfair. Even when Sherlock _did_ do experiments on him, he rarely let them go on for more that twenty four hours, and if he did, he would let John know about it sooner rather than later.

 

Still, John had spent his journey home psyching himself up to confront Sherlock, and now he'd finally gotten home to the flat...to find it empty.

 

Damn.

 

He'd considered that Sherlock might still be in his room, sleeping or sulking (either being possible), but he'd girded his loins and knocked, then opened the bedroom door to find it empty. He had no idea where Sherlock had gone, but then Sherlock rarely told John his plans with any level of detail, so he could be anywhere. Something case related, in all probability. Hopefully he had something that would cheer him up

 

If he had a new case, however, he probably wouldn't be agreeable to staying still and attentive long enough for he and John to have their discussion. Which would be bad. Because this was the sort of thing that would fester, John was sure. And if they left it alone for long enough it would become harder and harder to approach the subject, and things would get bottled up and tense and...

 

And it would all go to hell.

 

John let out a deep sigh and dropped into his armchair, still wearing his coat. That was what he feared, really. He could cope with unrequited feelings, heaven knew he'd done it before and he'd been doing it long enough now. As long as he could keep Sherlock's precious friendship, he _would_ cope. He had to.

 

'Unrequited feelings', he thought with a self-derisive sniff. Unrequited love, rather. That was the word. He was in love, and the object of his affections was barmy and brainy and rude and horrid and _marvellous_! He'd always insisted he wasn't gay, because he wasn't, really. He'd always liked women far better than men, and even though he went to bed with male friends every once-in-a-while, it was just sex. _Nice_ sex, no doubt. Friendly, enthusiastic, satisfying sex. But not love. And he'd never expected to fall in love with a man, but then Sherlock was not a normal man. There was no taking Sherlock and the affects he had into account.

 

But what to say to him, John wondered. If Sherlock did have a case, then it was better to confront him and demand his attention as soon as possible, before he got so involved that he became blinkered. Given how upset and erratic Sherlock had been for the past few days – weeks, even – John felt, for once, he would have little difficulty obtaining his flatmate's attention. If he could offer a solution to Sherlock's distress, then he would do so. He had no doubt that Sherlock, troubled as much by the experience of having emotions as the feelings themselves, would be all ears.

 

To think, he'd been all wound up before he even _knew_ that John had had sex with Molly. What _had_ he thought had gone on? John had been so astonished at the realisation that Sherlock, for once, hadn't worked it all out, that he hadn't thought to ask at the time. It was often rather alarming what Sherlock's mind could come up with; he rarely made mistakes, but when he did they could be quite a surprise.

 

How would he react to what John had to tell him?

 

The thought alone made John want to go and hide under his duvet, but he settled for going into the kitchen and making tea instead. He perched on one of the stools while he waited for the kettle to boil, rubbing his hands over his face. He felt as tense as a bowstring.

 

He thought he had an idea of why this whole situation had gotten to Sherlock so much, actually. Why it had bothered him more than most things did. John had been feeling attraction to Sherlock for a long time, since long before the actual _love_ had kicked in. And Sherlock really, _really_ , wasn't good at feelings.

 

So maybe Sherlock-the-all-seeing had noticed John's gaze lingering on him or being abruptly snatched away (because John wasn't entirely unaware of his own actions, thank you), or maybe he'd noticed something physiological, like John's pupils dilating, or his pulse quickening. Maybe it was something completely unpredictable that had tipped him off. But here's what John thought; Sherlock hadn't _registered_ that he had noticed these things. Because he was bad at feelings. Or, rather, he was only good at feelings as they applied to cases. When it came down to a real, complex person, somebody he was familiar with and maybe even cared about, things got lost in the noise.

 

So, Sherlock knew that John was attracted to him on some level, but he'd pushed the knowledge away or let it slip into the background, so that it settled into his subconscious mind. And as he continued to pick up hints of John's attraction and, possibly, his emotional state, they all got tucked away together, bothering him from a part of his mind he couldn't access. Sherlock must have been so confused already by that, that the business with Molly and the fear of John leaving him had driven him to distraction.

 

That was John's theory on the matter, at least.

 

He felt like a complete tool for letting it go on for so long. He'd thought for a while that Sherlock must have noticed and repressed John's feelings for him, but he hadn't realised it would cause him such turmoil. So John made his decision; he would tell Sherlock how he felt, let him know where they stood from John's point of view. And while he knew the best possible outcome would probably be Sherlock feeling relieved and their friendship going back to normal, at least he knew his friend well enough to know that Sherlock wouldn't let it come between them.

 

Of course, that wouldn't be the entirety of their conversation. John was still angry that Sherlock had tried to trick him, and to place controls on his actions. He planned to demand an apology; never an easy task, but one he felt was worth while in this situation. He couldn't have Sherlock thinking he could treat him like that. Besides, once he was over Sherlock he'd want to start seeing people again, maybe even look towards finding somebody to settle down with. Sherlock would need to understand what that meant and how to cope. It wouldn't be easy, at least at first, but John had confidence that they could deal with it.

 

Sherlock...he was the best friend John had ever had, even with all the mess and havoc he created. John would go a very long way to keep what they had, even if it wasn't everything he wanted.

 

His mind made up, John took his mug of tea up to his room and set about changing his clothes. He might as well be comfy when he got his heart broken.

 

_Now that's not the way to think about it John_ , he chided himself, but he couldn't help it. No matter how he thought of it, today would be the end of any self-delusion that Sherlock might want him in return. The idea made him feel weary.

 

He was startled out of his musings by the ringing of his phone downstairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> He's hopeless, isn't he? Bless.


	17. Molly Forms a Plan of Action (she'd love it if her plan came together)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She had a definite plan; she would go and see him, at his convenience, naturally. She would ask him out. He, hopefully, would accept, and they would go on a date, to which she would wear the dress she'd worn to the Christmas party which had made him go a bit sweary and had made his girlfriend glare. 
> 
> So; all sorted.

Molly stood looking at the phone as if it was about to bite her. It lay on her desk, John's number on the screen, daring her to press the call button. She clenched and unclenched her fingers and sighed.

 

She was being so _stupid_! All she had to do was phone him. She didn't have to ask him out right now, in fact she'd rather wait until they were face to face. But she did, at least, want to let him know what had just happened and warn him in advance that Sherlock was upset with her. That Sherlock was upset full-stop.

 

Oh god, what if he'd come to tell her off after trying and failing with John? Well, that was a good sign, wasn't it? That John wouldn't refuse to see her. It _could_ be a good sign...or it could just be Sherlock. Sherlocking.

 

All this wondering and retreading old ground wasn't doing her any good at all, and finally she took a deep breath, gave her boobs a squeeze (always made her feel a bit better) and grabbed up the phone to press the button.

 

It rang for quite a while, but she hardly ever phoned John, so she wasn't sure if that was normal. Finally he picked up, sounding slightly out of breath.

 

“Hello?”

 

“Hi John, it's me. Um, I mean Molly!” Shit, she sounded like an idiot again!

 

“Oh, hi Molly. Everything alright?”

 

She cringed; could he hear from her voice that she was nervous, or did he usually say things like that on the phone? She couldn't remember how he usually greeted her now. “I'm okay John, yeah. Um, but Sherlock was here a while ago and...um...”

 

John sighed deeply. “Oh no, he didn't try and make you promise to do something without telling you what it was, did he? Did you promise?”

 

“Um...no. No, nothing like that. He said he wanted me to stay away from you. I just...I'm not sure what you'd have wanted...um....”

 

“What did you tell him?” John said. He spoke in what Molly privately thought of as his Sensible Voice, the one he used when trying to get Sherlock to think things through reasonably.

 

“I told him...well, actually, I told him to eff off. Sorry.”

 

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the line, then John let out a blurt of laughter. “Okay, so what happened then?” he asked, clearly trying to suppress further such outbursts.

 

“Well, I told him to leave the morgue and he did. I didn't mean permanently, you know, but he may have taken it that way. And, um...I don't...I don't understand why he's doing this. I mean, why he's so _angry_ about it!”

 

John sighed, and when he spoke again he sounded tired all of a sudden. “He's...sort of jealous, I think. I'd assumed he'd realised that we'd had sex that night the moment he saw us, but it turned out he hadn't worked it out.”

 

“No!”

 

“I know, I couldn't believe it either, at first. But he thought that I was going to move out or...actually, I don't know what exactly he thought, but he's been getting really upset lately. I think it came to a head when he realised about you and I, and of course he isn't handling it well.”

 

Understatement, Molly thought.

 

“I'm sorry if I haven't been much of a help,” she said. “I wouldn't have shouted at him if I'd realised he was so confused. I-”

 

“No, no,” John interrupted. “He was really rude to you lately. If you hadn't told him off, I would have done it on your behalf. He needs a good shouting at every now and then. It's good to see you stand up to him.”

 

“I'm glad you think so John. I...I worry about what you think of me.” Oh no, she hadn't meant to blurt it out like that!

 

“Don't worry Molly, I know you aren't like Sherlock makes you out. You're always a really big help to us.” His voice sounded kind and it made Molly hopeful.

 

“Thank you,” she said. “Look John, if it's okay with you, I'll come and see you some time soon and maybe we can...talk some things over. Would that be okay?”

 

“Yeah. Yeah, that's fine.”

 

“Okay, thanks. And in the meantime, if Sherlock mentions ferrets...”

 

“What? Ferrets? ...Molly?”

 

She shuddered. “Actually, just take anything he says about me with a pinch of salt, okay?”

 

“Alright,” John replied easily. “Take care, Molly. I'll get Sherlock sorted out, don't you worry.”

 

“Thanks John,” she said, and they said their goodbyes and hung up.

 

She leaned back against her desk and breathed out a sigh of relief. He was so _nice_. And now she had a definite plan; she would go and see him, at his convenience, naturally. She would ask him out. He, hopefully, would accept, and they would go on a date, to which she would wear the dress she'd worn to the Christmas party which had made him go a bit sweary and had made his girlfriend glare.

 

So; all sorted.

 

No, no it wasn't. She still felt nervous as all hell.

 

And Sherlock was probably on his way right at that moment to tell John all the embarrassing stuff that had happened to Molly _and_ all the things he'd deduced about her _**and**_ maybe even make some things up! She couldn't bear it!

 

John had agreed that she could pop by and talk to him soon. She glanced at her watch and thought about the tube at this time of the afternoon. Maybe forty minutes. Forty minutes counted as 'soon', right?

 

She picked up her bag, exchanged lab coat for jacket, and set off for Baker Street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I cannot be the only woman who gets a little confidence boost from giving her own boobs a cheeky squeeze...can I?
> 
> There are only two chapters and maybe an epilogue left of this story now, and it's been fun, though quite a long journey. I only realised just now that I've been writing The Wrong Wagon for the better part of three months! My plan once it's finished is to work a bit more on my original story, The Blue Prince; then write a little tale (possibly in the format of a '5 times...') to fill the gap between the Adventure of the Consulting Woman and it's sequel; then write Small Screen Valentino (which is the one with the porn video, that people voted on against The Wrong Wagon, at the end of Peach); and then write the sequel to AotCW, which should be fairly epic. I really hope I can keep up with this schedule, but it's always a possibility that my brain might explode somewhere along the way.
> 
> If you hear a 'kapow!' and a sort of a splash, please come and wipe my hard drive before my Dad sees it.  
> Thanks.


	18. Sherlock Pulls Himself Together (and immediately falls apart again)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “I saw...I was walking and thinking about what I should do about Molly and why her actions were upsetting me so much, and I saw this...image. An image of such visceral passion and physicality that it made me...it made...”
> 
> “Wait, were you looking at porn?” John asked, bewildered.
> 
> “No! John, you must pay attention. I saw a picture of a very angry person stabbing somebody else.”
> 
> “...Alright.”

 

For the first time since he'd lived there, Sherlock found the prospect of going into 221...worrisome. Not intimidating, no, not quite that bad, but he was worried. Scared. No, no not scared, but...

 

Scared.

 

He was bad at feelings, this was a truth he had always unflinchingly accepted, and now, all of a sudden, he had masses of them. This alien feeling of desire for John had opened the floodgates for related sensations of longing, admiration, hopefulness...and okay, yes; fear.

 

John was important to him. No; more than important. John was vital, and this new revelation only gave strength to the depth of trust and need Sherlock had always felt for him. He knew he couldn't keep this bottled up. It wasn't like not telling John about a case, or lying to him about the contents of a freezer bag. This was something that would affect their relationship profoundly, for both of them. Sherlock didn't trust himself well enough with his emotions to be able to deal with this without telling John something of the matter, at least.

 

But how to tell him? John had always strenuously denied having homosexual tendencies, despite the fact that Sherlock was quite sure he'd had relationships with other men in his past. Although...John always specifically said he wasn't _gay_. Bisexual and gay were not the same things, by any means, as John well knew. Sherlock was amazed that he'd never considered this possibility before, but then again, he'd never really seen evidence of John having the skill of obfuscation to any remarkable degree.

 

Still, nothing really seemed to annoy John more than being mistaken for Sherlock's partner. It was likely that the best outcome Sherlock could expect from revealing his revelation to John would be help in dealing with his emotional response. John wouldn't go so far as to pity him, he was sure, but he may...he may be uneasy around him. He may even move out. There was the irony, and Sherlock could feel it as a bitter tang under his tongue.

 

He had been standing in the street staring at the front door for nearly twenty minutes, when he became aware of a couple of students (one art history, one human geography, dating) sitting in the window of Speedy's, peering at him. He gave them a good glare, swept his coat and his confidence around himself, and went indoors.

 

The stairs had never felt so steep, nor so loud, and he creaked up them wincing at every other step. The door to their living room was closed but unlocked, and Sherlock pushed it open quietly to reveal John, sitting in his armchair, looking in his direction. He had his phone in his hand, but hadn't been using it, and he placed it on the table by his side as Sherlock stepped into the room.

 

Sherlock shut the door behind him.

 

He found he suddenly understood why other people avoided confrontation or sharing of emotions. It left one vulnerable and uncertain, like walking through fog knowing that, somewhere nearby, there was a crevasse in the ground.

 

He could read the events of John's day from his clothes, his poor night's sleep from his hair and the number of patients he'd tended by the way he sat. But he couldn't tell how John would react to what he had to tell him. And to find out, he would have to speak.

 

They had stared at one another in still silence for perhaps a minute or two, when John cleared his throat and spoke.

 

“Why did you tell Molly to stay away from me?” he asked softly.

 

How did John - Sherlock's gaze fell on John's phone and he gritted his teeth. Damn.

 

“Molly would be bad for you, John. But I must-”

 

“That's for me to decide, Sherlock!” John snapped, and he bounced to his feet and stalked across the room, away from Sherlock, to stand rigidly before the window, hands in the small of his back. “You don't get to choose who I spend time with, in any context. You can give your opinion, but you can't make the decision for me, understand?”

 

Without even thinking about it, Sherlock nodded.

 

But he couldn't understand why John was angry to such a degree. Previous instances when Sherlock had, deliberately or not, been the cause of John's romantic relationships dissolving, he had received a mild telling off, suffered being ignored for a few hours, and then they'd been back to business as usual. But this time, John was clearly furious. Could he...

 

Oh. Oh no.

 

“John,” Sherlock asked, relieved to hear his voice come out firm and clear. “Are you in love with Molly?”

 

John turned to him frowning. “No, I'm not. Sherlock, I thought I'd made it clear why I was angry. _And_ what happened between Molly and me. It was just...just a bit of sex.”

 

Then why was he so damned angry?! Sherlock couldn't make sense of it, and he clutched his hands into his hair, astonished to hear a tortured sounding groan emerge from his own throat.

 

“God!” John cried, crossing the room towards him. “What's the matter?”

 

“It doesn't make sense!” Sherlock moaned, scratching at his scalp. “I can't make any blasted sense of it. It's all in a tangle!”

 

“What is? Tell me!”

 

Sherlock gritted his teeth and turned his back on John. He didn't know exactly what expression John's face would have arranged itself into at this juncture, but he did know that he couldn't cope with it. “Everything. The sex and the arguments and the bending over and the shouting. And then the other shouting and the Dido album and that _bloody poster_!” He put his hands over his face this time and sighed raggedly into them.

 

“I...have no idea what you're talking about,” John said warily. “Well, half of it. Come on now-” he broke off to grasp Sherlock by the shoulders and turn him round to bring them face to face. The expression of horror that crossed his features told Sherlock exactly how much of a state he'd got himself into.

 

“Alright then Sherlock,” John said flatly. “You win; I'm thoroughly confused.”

 

“There's no blasted need to be confused, John!” Sherlock snapped. “It isn't remotely complicated. Even you should be able to understand!” he was distressed to realise that his voice had begun to sound rather thick.

 

John clenched his fists and took a step back from Sherlock, but managed to keep his expression mild. “Why don't you explain it to me then?” he asked. “Tell me what's upset you, and maybe we can...I don't know, maybe we can sort something out.”

 

“I'm not upset, I'm angry,” Sherlock insisted, and John gave him a doubtful look.

 

“About what?”

 

“About Molly.” John just raised his eyebrows in response. “She's...she acts like you're hers John! Don't you see it?” he cried.

 

“No, I don't” John replied firmly. “She's perhaps a little confused about having had a one night stand with me, but she's not done anything rude. She's been friendly.”

 

“She's been _flirting_!” Sherlock hissed, and John frowned.

 

“Maybe,” he admitted. “But that doesn't mean she's been doing anything inappropriate, Sherlock.”

 

“But you're supposed to be...” Sherlock shut his eyes and fought the urge to cover his face again.

 

“What? What am I supposed to be?”

 

Sherlock's answer came out very quietly, between tightly pressed lips. “ _Mine_.”

 

There was a long period of silence, during which Sherlock kept his eyes shut. He could hear John shifting on his feet, not trying to move away, just vacillating on what to do.

 

Finally, John spoke; “What exactly do you mean by that? And don't give me any rubbish, Sherlock, because this is serious. Tell me what you mean.”

 

Sherlock sighed and opened his eyes to meet John's gaze. His friend's expression had become inscrutable, with patches of colour on his cheeks speaking of his emotional state.

 

“Earlier, John, I...had a revelation.”

 

“About what?”

 

“About _feelings_ , John. It was very awkward and I didn't like it, but I had it all the same.”

 

“Right,” John responded, looking dubious.

 

“I saw...I was walking and thinking about what I should do about Molly and why her actions were upsetting me so much, and I saw this...image. An image of such visceral passion and physicality that it made me...it made...”

 

“Wait, were you looking at porn?” John asked, bewildered.

 

“No! John, you must pay attention. I saw a picture of a very angry person stabbing somebody else.”

 

“...Alright.”

 

“No! No it isn't! Because it made me think of _passion_ , John. And that made me think of you. But it wasn't outraged passion, like in the picture. It was...I...”

 

John's eyes were wide and they stared at Sherlock as if fascinated.

 

“It was desire,” Sherlock managed to say. “I felt desire for you and...I don't know what to do.”

 

“Sherlock-”

 

“Because I'm bad at feelings, but I know that my feeling this way will change things for you and I, won't it?”

 

“Yes, but Sherlock-”

 

“But I can't bear for you to leave me, but if I try to keep you all to myself, you'd go anyway!”

 

“Sherlock, just-”

 

“I don't understand it! I just can't...I...”

 

“Sherlock, just listen to me a minute,” John said firmly, and Sherlock nodded, miserably, at him.

 

“What are you actually saying you want, here?” John asked. “I mean, is it just sexual feelings? Or is it...do you want to have a relationship with me? A romantic relationship?”

 

Sherlock nodded again. “Both,” he said miserably.

 

“Because you don't want to lose me to Molly?”

 

“No! Don't be an ass, John! I'm hardly _that_...” he couldn't quite bring himself to finish that particular thought. “I want these things because of _you_. You are the only person about whom I could ever feel this way, I'm sure. And I don't want anyone else to take you away.”

 

He knew full well that he sounded like a petulant child, and he fully expected John to leave the flat for one of his walks again, immediately in all likelihood. But instead, John stepped forwards and reached out to place a tentative, warm hand on Sherlock's upper arm.

 

“Sherlock,” he said firmly. “If you want me...all you have to do is ask.”

 

Sherlock stared hard into John's eyes and realised...how had he missed it? How long had he _been_ missing it? All this misery saved if he'd only _seen_!

 

John's smile broke across his face like dawn, warm and filled with promise. “You get it, don't you?” he asked.

 

In response, Sherlock swept John into his arms and kissed him like Rudolph Valentino.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Finally they get with the programme! God this took a long time.
> 
> I'll finish this story off next week, hopefully, and post both the last chapter and the epilogue. I actually almost didn't get this chapter together in time, as I've had a stinker of a cold the last couple of days and couldn't really sit up at my computer desk for long periods. However, some of the snot that was clogging up my brain went away after I breathed some Vicks, and I finally remembered that I had a fucking laptop that I could use while lying in bed with the big floor pillow behind me. So that's how this was written and I'm going to go back there as soon as I've had some food. Wish me luck.
> 
> Ooh, also, I'll be thirty by the time I post the next chapter, as it's my birthday on Tuesday. Yay! :) I doubt that I'll ever start to behave like a proper grown up though, so nobody hold your breath.
> 
> Also, for those of you thinking that John isn't really the type to be swept off his feet...you may be right.


	19. John Gets Screwed (in the good way)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> His gluteus maximus muscle twitched a bit against John's palm, and Sherlock gave a wide, wondering smile at the feel of it.
> 
> Definitely a virgin, John decided with some sense of satisfaction. No lover in their right mind would let Sherlock get away without having a good feel of that curvy bottom.

 

John pursed his lips when Sherlock's tongue poked at his mouth, and resisted Sherlock's second attempt to tilt him to one side. Then, no longer able to hold it in, he burst out laughing.

Sherlock was not impressed by this.

 

“What is it? What's wrong?” he demanded, and it took John a good thirty seconds to calm down enough to reply.

 

“Did...did you just _dip_ me!” he asked.

 

Sherlock frowned. “Is that not how it's supposed to be done?”

 

“In films, maybe,” John replied. “Usually, it's easier on everyone's back to skip the dipping part. C'mere, I'll show you.”

 

Ignoring Sherlock's frown, he tugged Sherlock's arms around him, reached up to adjust the angle of his head, and kissed him. Soft and easy, the gentle approach. Sherlock pressed a little closer to him, getting the picture.

Good.

Now they were getting somewhere.

John opened up his mouth and Sherlock followed his cue, and then there was some very nice licking and gentle sucking of lips going on, and

Holy suffering _fuck_ he was kissing Sherlock! Sherlock was kissing him! He wasn't fantasising this, was he? Nope, couldn't be. Too good.

Stuff like this didn't happen, not to the likes of John Watson, but Sherlock's hair was coarse and springy under his fingers, the curve of his lower back flexing slightly against John's gripping arm, and John could feel the soft snuff of Sherlock's breaths against his cheek as they kissed.

 

Suffice it to say, this was a far better outcome than anything he'd expected from the evening.

 

Sherlock was getting more enthusiastic now, and John opened his mouth to let him delve a bit deeper, squeezed Sherlock's waist a bit more tightly and was clung to in turn.

 

Sherlock...was he really as inexperienced as he seemed? It wasn't just the kiss, but...John was sure that that had to be the cause for much of Sherlock's confusion. It made perfect sense, if it was. The way Sherlock's hands explored John's upper body, feeling his hair, touching the lines in his face, kneading at his skin through his shirt and cardigan, was suggestive of curiosity as much as anything else, the way Sherlock examined something new to him.

 

Had he ever even been kissed before?

 

At that thought, something surged up in John, a tender and ferocious lust, and he drew Sherlock's body more firmly against his own, kissed him deeper. Sherlock was breathing in short, hissing gasps through his nose and the corners of his mouth, and the soft, frantic little noises were enough to drive John nearly mad.

 

He allowed his hand to slide down from Sherlock's waist and grab at one of his round, firm buttocks, pulling Sherlock's crotch up against his abdomen as he did so, and Sherlock gasped louder still, pulling his mouth away from John's all of a sudden.

 

John looked up at him, unmoving. Sherlock stared back, breathless and pink in the face, elated and baffled.

 

His gluteus maximus muscle twitched a bit against John's palm, and Sherlock gave a wide, wondering smile at the feel of it.

 

Definitely a virgin, John decided with some sense of satisfaction. No lover in their right mind would let Sherlock get away without having a good feel of that curvy bottom.

 

“John, I-”

 

“Shh, it's alright,” John said, and pulled Sherlock close again, tucking his face against the side of his neck and just enjoying the feel of him.

 

“But I ought to...shouldn't I explain things? Why I was...”

 

“Later, Sherlock. We can have it all out later on. Just let me hold on to you for a while.”

 

He felt Sherlock nod, and then those long, thin arms settled more tightly around him. Sherlock smelled of tweed and aftershave and a faint tang of sweat. He felt skinny and bubbling and wonderful. John wrapped both his arms low around Sherlock's back again and pulled him in tight, felt the slight, firm swell at Sherlock's groin against himself. Not uninterested, then. That was good.

 

He was just working up to having a kiss at Sherlock's neck, when Sherlock spoke again.

 

“John, ought I apol-”

 

“Nope. Leave it. We'll get the whole lot out of the way later,” John replied, then went for it and kissed Sherlock's neck, firmly and wetly. Sherlock made a growly noise of appreciation and tilted his head away to give John more space.

 

John could get used to Sherlock like this, he decided, and squeezed him close again to find a bit more firmness, a bit more _swell_. Good.

 

“Sherlock, you're a virgin, yes?” he asked softly. Best be blunt in a situation like this, he decided. Leave the bugger less room to prevaricate.

 

“Yes. Why?”

 

“Because in a moment I'm going to ask you if you'd like to have sex with me. Sex can be as much or as little as we both decide, and you can say no if you want to. I won't be cross or anything if you do. I just wanted to give you some advance notice.”

 

“Alright,” Sherlock said after a short, thoughtful pause, and one of his hands came up to cup the back of John's head, holding it in place there against his neck.

 

John took a deep breath and began; “Sherlock, would you like-”

 

“Yes,” Sherlock replied firmly, and John laughed out loud and kissed him again, nosing aside his collar to kiss the hollow of his throat and then pulling away and pulling Sherlock's head down to kiss his lovely mouth.

 

After a minute or so, he pulled himself away from the kiss to find that they were a couple of feet closer to the door to Sherlock's bedroom than they'd started off. Whether that had been him or Sherlock, he wasn't sure, but Sherlock was staring down at him with a blinding smile and some sort of frenzied energy glinting in his eyes, and John just couldn't bring himself to care about little details like that.

 

“Go in your room and get comfortable,” John told him. “I'm just going to nip up to my room and get some things, okay?”

 

Sherlock nodded and turned away as John, slowed by his state of arousal, made his steady and dignified way over to the stairs.

 

“Is 'comfortable' a euphemism for 'naked'?” Sherlock called from the doorway of his room.

 

John grinned. “Could well be,” he called back.

 

“What sort of 'things' are you getting?” Sherlock called again, from further inside the room.

 

“Just wait a moment,” John shouted back, and rooted quickly through the little box in his bedside cabinet for some condoms and fished underneath his socks for the bottle of lube. He took off his shoes and watch and cardigan, then decided to get undressed the rest of the way with Sherlock, who would no doubt want to have a good stare at him, then made his way back downstairs.

 

He could hardly believe it; it had seemed like everything was about to fall apart, but instead he suddenly had his best case scenario. Sherlock wanted him. Sherlock cared about him and wanted him, and was right at this moment waiting in his room for John to come and help him see off his virginity.

 

John was sensible enough to realise that this wouldn't be easy, not by any means. Sherlock had never been easy to deal with in his life, and this would all be new to him. Not the sex, but the relationship, the need to let somebody else inside his barriers, to trust and earn trust in return. John felt equal to it, though. Nothing he liked better than a challenge.

 

He fetched a small towel from the bathroom, then went and tapped lightly on Sherlock's bedroom door before going in, and found that all the lights were on, making the room brighter than he'd ever seen it. Sherlock himself stood at the open wardrobe in his shirt and underwear, carefully placing his trousers on a hanger. John felt himself smile at the sight. He stepped up behind him and, as Sherlock closed the wardrobe doors, John reached around him with both hands and begun unfastening his shirt buttons. Sherlock watched John's hands in the mirror on the wardrobe door as if they were fascinating, and when John had his shirt open and ran both his hands up and down the length of Sherlock's chest, Sherlock smiled with delight.

 

“You're very warm, John,” he said, and John was pleased to hear that Sherlock's voice was softened slightly with arousal. He pulled the shirt down from his shoulders, waited patiently while Sherlock dropped it into the laundry basket, and drew him close for another kiss. Sherlock rubbed himself against John like a cat, feeling out the sensations as his almost nude body was pressed against John's clothed one, and John's hands roamed over his back and his bottom, and finally around to gently cup his genitals.

 

Sherlock breathed out a strange, gurgling noise at this touch, but leaned into John, hands gripping his shoulders. His cock was well on the way to being fully hard, a lovely smooth, sleek shape, stretching out the fabric of his briefs.

 

“Do we get into bed now?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded and let go of him. Sherlock pulled the bedclothes down a bit and got under them, then watched with some curiosity as John walked around the room switching off the light fittings above the chest of drawers and the overhead light, until the room was lit only by the lamps on the bedside cabinets and the weak threads of afternoon sun creeping in around the curtains.

 

“Feels a bit more intimate,” John said in response to his curious look, and Sherlock shrugged. John sat down on the edge of the bed and unbuttoned his shirt, almost startled into laughter again at the irritated noise Sherlock made when he realised there was a t-shirt underneath.

 

“Let me see your skin!” he demanded, and John hurriedly wriggled out of his layers and got to work on his belt and flies while Sherlock's cool hands spread against his chest. It wasn't easy to get undressed when being groped by a curious genius, heaven alone knew what of John's history he was reading from his skin. Sherlock touched the scar from his bullet wound, the mean girl fingernails one, the couple he had from when he'd been burned, then got bored of scars and tugged lightly on his chest hair. Finally John got his trousers and boxer shorts shoved down and off, peeled off his socks, and slid into the bed at Sherlock's side.

 

Sherlock turned pink. “You're nude,” he said, almost accusingly, and John grinned at him.

 

“So I am,” he replied. “It feels nice. Care to join me?” Sherlock ignored the hint in favour of having a feel of John's genitals, and John decided to forget everything else and just enjoy that for a minute or two, thank you very much.

 

“What do we do now?” Sherlock asked once his immediate curiosity had been satisfied somewhat.

 

John instructed him to take off his underwear, which Sherlock did this time, and had him lie down. Then he leaned over him to kiss his lips again, touched his skin tenderly and softly, seeking out places that made Sherlock draw in little not-quite-gasps of breath. He was gratified to find out that there were quite a lot of those. He straddled Sherlock's waist and then lowered himself down on top of him so they were pressed tightly together, and Sherlock moaned.

 

“Feels good?” John asked, and Sherlock answered him with another groan and a squeeze of John's bottom.

 

“What...what do we do, John? Does one of us...should we just do our hands on our penises together, or...”

 

His voice was such a beautiful, breathless struggle that John had to kiss him again before he answered. “We can do whatever we like, Sherlock. Nothing you don't want to do, I promise. Tell me what you want.”

 

Sherlock opened his mouth...and nothing came out. He looked as surprised as John was at this, and clutched John tighter to his body to make up for it, which brought their cocks together, which made them both moan.

 

“Do you want to do it like this?” John asked him breathlessly. “We could just rub ourselves together if you like. It feels good.”

 

Sherlock managed to produce a couple of meaningless syllables, but still seemed uncertain. His hands were spread over John's lower back, and John reached around to push them back down, onto his buttocks, Sherlock's long fingers sliding into the crease as his hands were guided into place.

 

“Would you like to penetrate me?” John asked, not sure if Sherlock would approve of the word 'fuck'. “That'll feel good for sure.”

 

“For both of us?” Sherlock asked, squeezing his hands, and John smiled down at him and nodded. Sherlock set his jaw and said “Yes please, John,” and damn if John hadn't found the 'on' switch for his manners.

 

John knelt up and shoved the bedclothes down further, then reached to the bedside table where he'd put the condoms and bottle, Sherlock's eyes following his every move. He poured lube over his fingers and got himself ready quickly and easily. It had been a good few years since he'd done this, but the body remembered. Sherlock tried to twist around to see what he was doing but was hampered by the fact that John was still kneeling astride him, so John gathered up one of his hands and guided it to his backside. Sherlock made the most wonderful noise of delight as he encountered the slickness of John's skin, his fingers working away inside his hole, and when John encouraged him to do so, he slid one of his own fingers inside and an expression crossed his face that made John think he was about to cry.

John reached up with his free hand to stroke Sherlock's cheek soothingly, then gasped loudly as Sherlock's fingertip managed to find exactly the right spot inside him.

 

“Prostate?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded, blinking hard. “Hmm,” Sherlock responded, and touched it again, apparently fascinated. John seized a moment to grab one of the condoms from the bedside cabinet and ripped open the packet, while Sherlock's finger probed gently inside him. He gave Sherlock's cock a couple of strokes with his lube-damp hand, getting Sherlock's attention back on himself, and Sherlock stared down at John's hands as they rolled the condom carefully onto him.

 

“We're going to have sex,” Sherlock said wonderingly.

 

“Yep,” John replied. “You okay?”

 

“Yes, I...it just hit me,” Sherlock said, and he turned his face up to John's to reveal a wide, happy smile. “We're going to have _sex_ , John!”

 

John laughed and leaned down to kiss him again, letting Sherlock lick at his lips and suckle on his tongue until both their faces were wet. Then he sat back and wiped his face with the back of one wrist.

 

“I'm going to get on top of you, okay?” he asked and Sherlock nodded. John took a deep breath, held Sherlock's cock in position with one hand and rose up on his knees again. Before he could trick himself into doubt or think too much about it, he lowered himself down and let his weight slide Sherlock into his body.

 

He rose and fell gently on his knees, working Sherlock's cock carefully into himself, not too fast, not so slow it would frustrate either of them. Sherlock panted and made high, whining noises in his throat, and when John finally settled down onto him, his hands were clenched into the bedsheets so hard his knuckles were white.

 

“ _Oh god-_ ” he gasped raggedly, and that heavy breathing _really_ did it for John.

 

“You feel okay, Sherlock?” he asked, a bit breathless himself. Sherlock nodded hard, and John wasn't sure he meant it but was going to just have to take his word for it. He lifted up and slid back down again, let himself feel it this time rather than focusing solely on Sherlock, and they both moaned. John did it again, again, and got his rhythm going, Sherlock clawing at the bed under him, groaning and heaving, struggling to stay still.

 

“Lift your hips,” John told him. “When I push down, you lift up.” Sherlock nodded and, though it took him a few tries to get the rhythm right, he managed it, and John was suddenly reminded that, yes, it could feel really _really_ good to be fucked.

 

They were moving faster now, the bed creaking loudly under them, and John could tell from Sherlock's breathing, from his colour and the way his eyes had gone back in his head, that he wasn't far off. He rolled his hips and bore down on him a bit harder, and suddenly Sherlock was shouting, a hoarse jolt of noise coming from his throat with every thrust. His eyes were manic, his hands leapt up to clutch at John as if in panic, and then he shouted;

 

“Oh god, John! John!” with all the power of that beautiful voice, and he shook like a leaf as he came. John kept moving on him, slowing steadily, until Sherlock was still and sensitive under him. He lifted himself off carefully, feeling a variety of twinges he hadn't felt in years, and lay down next to Sherlock.

 

Sherlock, still breathless, shifted himself awkwardly into John's arms, put his face against John's neck, and whimpered. It had been a bit much for him, it seemed, and John wrapped his arms around him to stroke and soothe, whispered reassurance into his ear.

 

“I liked it, I _did_ ,” Sherlock insisted when he'd got his breath back. “It was just...”

 

“Intense?” John asked, and Sherlock nodded against him. John kissed his hair and reached down to peel the condom off him. He hadn't really cleaned himself properly before they started, so there was a bit of a mess, but nothing that couldn't be dealt with. He reached off the edge of the bed and fished up the towel to sort them both out.

 

“You didn't orgasm. Is that normal?” Sherlock asked.

 

“Fairly normal,” John replied. “Normal for me, anyway. I've heard of men who can come just from prostate stimulation, but I've never managed it.”

 

Sherlock pulled away enough to look down the length of John's body, then reached down and took John's cock in hand. It was still mostly hard, and began to swell again at Sherlock's touch.

 

“Can you come like _this_?” Sherlock asked, and John nodded weakly. “Show me how,” Sherlock demanded, and so John reached down and guided his hand to stroke and squeeze, to rub his thumb against the head and slide the foreskin up and down, and within a few minutes John was moaning into Sherlock's hair as his own orgasm was eased out of him.

 

“That was nice,” Sherlock said quietly.

 

“Yeah,” John replied and hugged him.

 

There was silence for a minute or two, then Sherlock said “Do you want to talk about what we just did?”

 

“Not particularly, but we can if you want.”

 

Sherlock thought about this. After another little while he asked “How often should we have sex?”

 

“As often as we like,” John replied.

 

Another pause for thought, then; “Does it always feel like that?”

 

“It was probably so strong because it was your first time. We'll do something a bit more gentle next time, eh? Get you used to it.”

 

Sherlock nodded. Another pause, then; “Are you going to go off and have sex with other people too?”

 

John kissed his hair again. “No. Lets both just have sex with each other, alright?”

 

Another nod. Another pause, then; “I'm bored of talking.”

 

John took stock of himself. They'd had a nice little wait, and he was still feeling fairly energetic. “Sherlock, would you like to have sex again?”

 

“Now?”

 

“Yes.”

 

“The same as before, or some different permutation?”

 

“Different. My backside can't really manage twice in a row any more. We can do whatever you'd like.”

 

Sherlock lifted his head and grinned at him, and John grinned back, and then they were melting into each other as if they were lovers of years, rather than a couple of hours.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, I hope that that was satisfying for you all. It took a lot of build-up to get here, but the boys finally got it together. Yay!
> 
> Now I'm going to go and have a lie-down.


	20. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The shout came from upstairs, muffled through the door to flat B, but still clear enough. Still perfectly recognisable as Sherlock's voice, and Molly suddenly realised what was going on up there.

Molly found the door to 221 unlocked, which was daft of them, but then again, it _was_ still daylight. She pushed it open and walked to the foot of the stairs, and was just about to start climbing when she became aware of an odd noise.

 

It was a steady, rhythmic sound, comprised of a sort of creaky wooden noise and a bit of a soft thump. Odd; something in her mind told her that she ought to know what that sound was, what it meant, but she was so distracted she couldn't-

 

“ _Oh god, John! John!_ ”

 

The shout came from upstairs, muffled through the door to flat B, but still clear enough. Still perfectly recognisable as Sherlock's voice, and Molly suddenly realised what was going on up there.

 

Sherlock, whom she'd only lately gotten over, was having sex with John, whom she'd been hoping to ask out.

 

She froze, one foot on the bottom step, staring up at the first landing as the thumping sounds slowed and stopped. Her bag slipped from her nerveless fingers and hit the floor with a subdued crash.

 

A moment later, the door to flat A opened, and Mrs Hudson peered out.

 

“Oh it's you, Molly dear. I wondered what that noise I heard out here was. Have you come for a visit? I'm afraid they, um...well, they might be a bit busy at the moment.”

 

Molly felt her face start to scrunch up, tears tickling the back of her nose.

 

“Oh poppet!” Mrs Hudson cried, and before Molly knew what was happening, Mrs Hudson had gathered her up, picked up her bag, and ushered her into her flat. She pushed Molly gently towards the sofa and placed a little flowery box of tissues in her hands, then hurried off into the kitchen.

 

Molly sat there and wiped her eyes and felt stupid. God, how long had they even been sleeping together, anyway? Had they been together when she'd had sex with John? That was an awful thought. She didn't like the idea of somebody cheating on their partner with her.

 

Mrs Hudson bustled back out with two mugs of tea, handed one to Molly and sat down in her armchair. “I know you've liked Sherlock for ever such a long time, dear,” she said. “But it's only just this afternoon they finally got themselves sorted out, so I think we ought to leave them alone for a bit, eh? Not easy on you, I know, but you're a good girl.”

 

“Only this afternoon?” she asked weakly, and Mrs Hudson nodded. That was something, at least. But-

 

“It wasn't Sherlock. I'd just about gotten over him. It was John!” And at that she burst out crying. God, it was mortifying! Mrs Hudson seemed inclined to take it in stride though; she came and sat down on the sofa next to her, and pulled Molly over to lean against her side, all the time murmuring little reassurances. It all came spilling out then; Molly told her about John and the kidnapper and the garden (not in detail) and the arguments with Sherlock and her attempts to ask John out, and Mrs Hudson just listened to it all, nodding and sympathising.

 

“Well, flower,” she said gently when Molly had finished spilling her guts, “I think you are the sort of girl who gets very strong crushes. There isn't anything wrong with that, but sometimes the person you've got the crush on and the person who's there in real life are two quite different people, aren't they.”

 

Molly nodded miserably.

 

“If you look around, I'm sure you'll see there are people you don't _need_ to have crushes on to like, people you can just go out with and be yourself around.”

 

“I don't think so,” Molly replied. “Nobody's that interested in me.”

 

“A pretty, clever thing like you? Don't be silly!” Mrs Hudson said, and picked up Molly's mug from the coffee table to put it back in her hands. Molly took a sip and sighed. She _was_ starting to feel a bit better, actually.

 

“I had my fair share of crushes when I was your age, and let me tell you, dear; they're nothing but trouble!”

 

“Really?”

 

“Oh goodness yes. There was this one lad called Billy, he was a real heart breaker. Handsome and bright and so charming...”

 

“What happened to him?” Molly asked.

 

“Well dear, I married him. And it turned out he was a complete C-word. Would you like a drop more tea?”

 

Molly spluttered a bit, and Mrs Hudson took the mug from her and went back into the kitchen again. “You want to get yourself a nice friendly sort of chap,” she called through the doorway. “One who's interested in the same kind of things as you. These fellows who are all about danger end up drawing each other. You need some clever, level-headed sort, like yourself.”

 

“Maybe,” Molly replied. “I think I might give up on romance for a bit, actually. Give myself a break from it.” That wasn't a bad idea, actually. Sounded nice.

 

“Well, that's the spirit dear,” Mrs Hudson called. “Nobody says you need a man to be happy. You get yourself down to Ann Summers'. Didn't have those in my day or I might have made a few better decisions!”

 

That startled a laugh out of Molly, and Mrs Hudson smiled sweetly at her as she passed her the refilled mug.

 

Upstairs, the creaking, thumping noises started again. Molly just ignored them and drank her tea.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are, that's the end of the story. I hope that you've enjoyed it.
> 
> I've said before that some of my stories start from one particular line or image. The Adventure of the Consulting Woman, for example, began with the scene in which Sherlock flashes John to prove that he got waxed. Well, this story originated with Mrs Hudson using the phrase 'complete C-word' to describe her ex-husband. Somehow all the rest of it came from that.
> 
> And for those who don't know, Ann Summers' is a UK chain of sex shops aimed at women, best known for selling sexy clothing and a large range of vibrators and other sex toys. 
> 
> This story didn't turn out quite how it expected to. I think the changing points of view gave me more trouble than I realised they would, and all the soul searching going on made it hard to inject as much humour as I usually go for, so it was a bit of an adventure. Hopefully I've got a bit more of a handle on my next story, though I'm going to take a break from Sherlock to work on my original fiction for a while, before I post that.
> 
> So until then, take care :)  
> DG


End file.
